The Sweet of the Bee...

My multi-cultural education teacher wore traditional scottish garb to class today. He had a scandu(sp?) in his sock and a purse with a chain and little leather tongs on it. He is a funny mand and made jokes about how the purse hides the "tilt in the kilt," since it is worn just over the groin area. Anyhow, someone asked him if he was scottish and he said not really, that he just enjoys scottish country dancing as one of his greatest loves in the world so he bought the outfit so that he could fit in with all of the dancers since it is something that he does so often. He added that his great-great-great-great grandfather's last name was Fergusson, and then he mentioned to the class that my last name is Ferguson too. He says the Fergusson's who spell their names with two s's are regarded as "sheep-stealers" in Scotland--some sort of ancient joke which he's told to our class time and time again.

But anyways, later he and I entered a discussion about the name Ferguson and I told him how I heard it comes from "farrier's son" he told me that the Ferguson sheild, a bee on a thistle, is very famous. He told me that when people ask him about his scottish ancestry and he tells them he is a Fergusson then they always nod their head and say, "Ah, yes, the sweet of the bee."

So why am I telling you this? Because I happen to think it is particularly cool that my first name, Melissa, is greek for honey-bee, and my last name also refers to a bee. My parents had no clue about any of this, so I feel rather special that something neat has come of my name just out of coincidence (if that's what you want to call it). I feel like a whole new person with a special story behind my existence...I mean, what are the chances of THAT? I feel like I personally represent all matters concerning honey or bees or thistles.


My name, translated, is "Honey-Bee Sweet-of-the-Thistle." You can call me this from now on:)

9726
four simple numbers will haunt me for the rest of my life
calling when I have friends over
demanding answers, fights, wars
emotions
four single numbers
want to discuss our son
and I wonder what there is to discuss?
shall we begin with the cough he came home with
or how it takes him days to re-adjust?
What shall we talk about if talk we must?

Dancing...

Saturday night led me to my brother's house for the end of the season fiesta, hosted by the himself and the mexican workers. It involved a delicious cocktail of shrimp in a tomato base with noodles and cilantro, a huge round black-bellied barbequing machine and pork and tortillas, and chilles cooked to perfection by Gorge. Also, there was blueberry wine ala my mom and a keg.

It was supposed to be a happy event, and it was, but there were only three women there and there were only three men who were dancing and the other twenty or so fellows sat on chairs or tree stumps looking slightly melancholy as they imagined their wives and families back in Mexico. Some of them will be returning soon, and some will be staying on in the states for another year or so, traveling to other places to harvest other crops.

Martin allowed himself to drink for the first time all month and got rather drunk, at which point he revealed to me how kind I've always been to him and how much he enjoys my company, someone smart to talk to, and then he revealed how his wife in Mexico is like a stranger to him and how they were so close to getting divorced last time he went home, and how it is a source of pain in his heart that they don't really know each other any more since he travels away for such long periods of time to find work, and he is absolutely miserable and so is she, but his ten year old daughter is ranked second in her entire school and she set a record on the phone last night talking for 45 minutes to him. Martin has a degree in Biology which he earned in Mexico--a very intelligent man, and my 20-year old brother who is still in college is his boss. But Martin is a good man, and helps my brother out a lot, and loves my brother.

My brother was lively and animated, speaking wildly in spanish and gesturing with his arms and hands and making the crowd of guys erupt into laughter. I had no clue what he was saying.

Sean was operating the barbeque, my brother's best friend and a farm worker, and all he can say in spanish is "Pinche ranchero," which means "f------ farm."

When Israel asked me to dance, I threw my hands up in the air and said "why not?" even though we would be the only ones dancing and all eyes would be on us.I was wearing a knee-length silk dress that flirted out at the ends, just right for dancing. He was wearing tight jeans, boots, and a white t-shirt tucked in nicely. He had big, strong arms.

I was amazed at what that man could do. To make things clear, let me explain that while I have sort of figured out how to dance by myself, my only dancing experience with another person was in sixth grade at the gym, where we did the side to side shuffle with stiff arms. Any other attempt has been a catastrophe. But Israel knew what he was doing, and through him, I became a dancer for the first time in my life.

Marriachi music rocks. I was spinning and flying and my feet were moving in intricate little patterns, but the funny thing was that I had no control over it. This man really knew how to move. He moved so well that he even moved me. He held me just right, firmly and gently at the same time, and held my hand in such a way that I felt liberated and free, not cramped and confined. He kept just the right amount of space between us. For once, I didn't feel like my balance was disrupted and I was going to tip over, which is how I usually feel when I try to dance with someone else. I have a history of moving to the beat of my own drum, if you know what I mean. Dancing with someone else usually finds me going one way and my partner going another. But we moved together like magic. He told me que yo apprendo muy rapido y I told him "eres un mentioso."

This man has changed my life.

By the end of the night, when I left, I had made promises to return on Sunday afternoons to play in their weekly game of futbol.

Can't wait.

7 Things to Do When Your Life is Falling Apart, Literally...




1) Scream in your car with all the windows up so no-one can hear you. They might see you, but with any luck they will think you are only singing with feeling. This is incredibly invigorating and refreshing if done properly, trust me. If you are feeling like a pathetic and miserable victim of this cruel joke called life, it is especially helpful to scream " I WANT MY POWER BACK!" at the top of your lungs while in the privacy of your car. Doing this has two pay-offs--instead of feeling sorry for yourself you feel like a looney-toon, and you also can't help but laugh hysterically, which relieves the tension somewhat.

2) Try to put things back together again. Like my car--which seems to be where 95% of my life takes place-- which is falling apart. On my trip to Pensacola the oil light came on, even though I had topped it off before driving up there. This means that in three days I lost four quarts of oil. Ummm, I guess it really IS time to suck it up and go take her to the shop. And today a nice friend of mine replaced my battery, which had been reminding me that it was three breaths away from dead each morning when I was forced to use psychic brain power to start my car because the battery obviously wasn't going to do it. Chug chug, chug chug, chug chug, chug chug. So while the battery problem is now fixed, he noticed that my radiator hose was bulging like a ballon and is likely to blow at any moment. Just to depart the frustration and desperation that I have been experiencing lately, I want to tell you how I arrived at the auto parts store tonight about three minutes after closing. They literally locked the doors and turned off the lights as I was parking. But I would not be turned away. I banged on the doors and they came to let me in and were nice about it but then I realized that my wallet was not in my purse and I only had 33 cents so I babbled a confused apology and went back to my car, rolled up the windows, and screamed.

3) Ignore all of your problems and do something fun. This actually isn't a really helpful thing to do, but sometimes it can buy you an hour of two of relief in return for the same measure of guilt.

4) Call a friend. Then you realize that you aren't the only one whose life seems out of control. Your friends are also debating serious problems--like which club or bar to go to, which movie to see, what to do with all of their free time. If you are really lucky you will get a friend who actually does have a problem more serious than your own, and then you feel like a jerk for being so stuck inside your own small world.

5) Curl up on the couch and watch a movie while demolishing boxes of mint-chocolate chip ice cream and cheez-its.

6) Count your blessings.

7) Go to the batting cages and whack about 90 balls. The next day, your body will be so sore that you will feel deliriously relieved and relaxed.

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Okay, so I'm obviously not in the best state of mind lately. It's just that everything is coming on so quickly, and I'm not ready for it! Each week my car is diagnosed with a new disease, something important in my house breaks, and I'm getting sleepier and sleepier. It wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't the only adult in this family--it's not easy single-handedly fulfilling the insatiable needs of a toddler while working and going to school.

I want to make something of myself, but I just can't go that extra mile when I've run around in circles all day.

I feel like a bowl of cereal that is sitting in milk slowly turning to mush.
---

On the up side, I think am going to teach Quinn's spanish class at his private school in a sort of trial lesson. Wanda, his teacher, has invited one other prospect to do a trial lesson as well, and she will decide between the two of us who will teach spanish to the kids next year. The job only requires 2 days a week, and it pays well. If I can get my schedule MWF, then it will fit perfect. I can't wait to teach--this other girl may speak better spanish than me, but I know I am more fun and probably a better teacher. Besides, where my speaking skills lapse, I can bring in mexicanos que yo conosco.

On the up up side, I know that this is just a phase, and as soon as my car is fixed I'll be my normal self again. My car is like a part of my body--when it is not well, neither am I. Unfortunately, I abuse the hell out of the machine. I would trade my left arm for a resident mechanic--someone to change my oil, to fix and putter and gage and inspect, to change air filters and replace belts and hoses, to lovingly inspect each orifice of my car and restore her, and me, to health.

I'll have a dish of life, no teen-age please...

I think my blogs are getting boring, but at least I'm still posting. My inner artist is on vacation--lately she would rather stare gently at a wall than do anything creative. Perhaps this is because my inner artist is in repression, as I am forcing her not to feel things that she is feeling. It is, I think, a gentle form of protest on her part to refuse to write if I won't let her write about the things that matter to her.

My energy is completely sapped. I chaperoned my cousin Hanna's 15th Birthday Sleepover at Grandma's Lake house this weeekend. The WHOLE ENTIRE weekend. Only after I was there for 24 hours did I begin to wonder what I had gotten myself into. All in all it was a success, but I realize that I can only handle so much 15-year-old girl talk and I realize that I am SO glad that I am not 15 years old anymore and I don't have to sit on the phone talking to boys about absolutely nothing for three hours and I don't have to have stupid conversations like

"Jennifer Lorway is sooooo stuck on herself."
"No she's not."
"Well, she acts like it."
"No she doesn't. She's just prettier than everyone else so everyone hates her."

or...

"What about Travis Chapman?"
(Chorus) "No way, he has about a hundred extra teeth."

It's so difficult for me being around teenagers lately because it really bothers me how they think the whole world should revolve around them. I just want to hit them on the head and grow them up.

Friday night I made them lasagna for dinner, and it took forever to cook because Grandma's oven is all high-tech and weird. You have to press "bake", then "temperature", then the "up" or "down" arrow, then "time", then the "hour" and "minute" arrows, then you have to press "start." I forgot to press "start," so it took forever. Anyways, I made the girls dinner and brought it downstairs and set the table and made a huge salad and made sure they got fed. I washed all the dishes. I did all of this with grumpy Issac having meltdowns because it was WAY past his bedtime. I received no real thanks for this, and to compound the problem, I got blamed for getting grandma's oven dirty and spent Issac's entire naptime the next day scrubbing her oven rack.

The lake is beautiful, but still, it was a difficult weekend. Altough we had fun on the lake, and in the lake breeze, most of the day was occupied either keeping Issac off of Grandma's nice furniture or keeping him from running off the edge of the dock.

You should have seen the girls when I suggested that they start cleaning up after themselves. It wasn't the girls, per se, it was just Hanna. She rolled her eyes and gave me this disgusted look, like I'm some adult ruining her life. I'm not sure she even realized that she did it, because I told her it really makes me angry when she does that since I am sacrificing time in MY life to help her out, and then she said defensively, "I didn't roll my eyes at you! geeze!" and then proceeded to roll them again and scrunch up her mouth in an even uglier, more angry glare.

To be fair, I think Hanna was just as exasperated as I was. I remember what it was like when I was fifteen, and invited a bunch of girls over--it was fun for the first 12 hours, and then we all started pissing each other off, breaking off into cliques, gossiping about each other, getting on each other's nerves. We didn't want to do this, it just happened. I remember wanting to be the center of attention at my birthday party and being upset and disappointed when I wasn't.

I was so glad to see Lynn and Windy. They came to rescue me, and brought a bottle of wine, and after Issac finally fell asleep we left him in the room next to the girls' and we walked out to the dock with a blanket and we talked and let the stars and the moon sparkle off the water and the wind wash our faces.

I was happy to learn that Issac had woken up a few times while I was gone and Hanna had to put him back to sleep for me, as though we were somehow getting closer to even in helping each other out.

Love

Like a shroud that covers your face and confuses your reason, love is blind. Love makes obstacles seem trivial, hurdles like mere humps. Love makes you fall in love with impracticalities. Love grabs hold of your collar and throws you into impossible situations. Love beats you up and then asks you to get up and face it again. Love sings a song in your heart so that you can never be angry with it. Love blows a wind that makes you feel large. Love expands. Love moves. If you cannot move with it, you will surely be left behind.

Ferry-man, Sing Me a Song

Somewhere in the salty city of St.Marys, Georgia, there is a tall old black man named Jerome. He has big hands, graying hair, a quick smile, and a good job. He is the deck-man for the Cumberland Queen, making three 45-minute trips each day to the island, wearing his blue hat with the gold rope across the bridge, catching the ropes at the docks with a long metal pole, helping passengers to stow items, and returning to the mainland. He wears the same sensible sweater every day. He brings leftovers from dinner for breakfast and eats them in the engine room. He goes home between trips for lunch in his little red pick-up.

When I lugged my guitar in its big broken guitar case onto the boat, he smiled and asked if we were "going to get a concert?" and I just grinned at him. I took it in and set it on the seat in the inner cabin, and went back to the dock to get more things--when I returned it was stowed away in a safe place that I couldn't see. Jerome came in and told me so. I thanked him, softly regretting that it was gone because I did in fact want to play it. But I went and sat outside on the bow for the beginning of my adventure so that the sea-spray could mist my face, and didn't think twice about it.

Jerome unloaded my guitar for me when we reached our dock, and came to tell me so. "Child, that is a beautiful guitar," he said. "You ought to get a better case for something so nice as that."

I asked him if he plays.

"Oh, yeah," he said, nodding his head emphatically, closing his eyes as though remembering a feeling. "Was jamming out last night, as a matter of fact, with a couple of fellas downtown. 'Twas the first time in a looong time. It felt goooood. Oh yeah. " I could tell that he was back in the memory of the night before. "Yes, that is a beautiful guitar you got there. You need to take better care of it and get a good case, you know?"

"Yeah, yeah. I know." We went about the business of unloading.

Before the ferry took off I ran back to it, up the long loading dock, and up the steps. I found Jerome eating breakfast. "Hey--if you can get a ride back to the island tonight, you should come jam. We'll be up late. Campsite 11."

"Alright, alright," he said, with a big grin. He stuck out his hand. "Name's Jerome."

"Melissa," I said.

He never came for our jam-out session, which consisted of me playing the seven or eight songs that I know, the three or four songs that I only half know and can remember only half the words to, a lot of acapella by the five of us, and making up a few new songs about the island. Stephen and I made a pretty good duo as he made up ridiculous words and beat on a chair with a stick for some good back-up rythm. It was fun. I had my doubts about bringing my baby to play for the crew, since it's borderline whether I'm ready for such a thing or not. Truthfully, I brought it to play for myself, and I'm just happy that I'm not too shy to play for other people anymore.

On the return trip to the mainland, I brought the guitar on board last, and took it out of its case and started playing around. Jerome came and sat with me, and so did the young girl who runs the snack bar (she gave me some fresh grapes). Jerome sat back and listened and laughed and we goofed around together. He played my guitar and he was good. He showed me some suspended chords and picking styles and he played Jazz and he played the blues. He started playing the guitar when he was 13, he said, after he heard the Beatles. We laughed about the Beatles and how old he was, and then we thanked God for the Beatles. And then we talked about the blues and the strangers who have influenced us musically by bringing us out of our shells, by questioning us and by insisting that we play something for them, by listeing to us fumble around and then showing us a thing or two. And then he started talking about California where he was raised and about his kids and how they never were struck by the music bug even though he had plenty of instuments laying around the house all the time. We talked of a lot of things and we laughed.

He was good. He played and closed his eyes and let his fingers fly back and forth and all around, quick. His fingers were long and black and he had gold rings over two big knuckles, and he spread his fingers all over that guitar, leaning down close to the belly so he could hear over the loud engine.

And he had faith in me. He just kept leaning back and grinning, and telling me that I have discipline, and he knows it, and that if I keep practicing the day will come when my fingers will separate from my body and just start doing a dance that I can't control, and it will be beautiful. And he said "Girl, it is just a feeling , that's all it is. You just get that feeling in your soul and that comes out and that's all it is. Yeaaaah, man."

So, I'm writing a song about Jerome the ferry-man and the feeling that comes from deep down in your soul. The feeling that you can share with other people, the feeling that comes out in music, the feeling that, as Jerome says, just "sets your spirit right."

Before it's all said and done, I'm going to jam out with Jerome one night when my fingers can fly, and it will be out of this world.

Ahhhh, A Computer...

So it's only been five days since I've been to a computer, but it feels like eternity. I've been missing my regular blogging since school has been out.

Now, I am in Pensacola at Issac's Grammy's house, and in just a few short hours I will be driving across Florida again to Jacksonville and then to St. Marys, Georgia. Why all of this insane driving in the middle of the night? Because at 8:56 am eastern time I will board a ferry and ride to a beatiful, exotic island for three days of nothing but reading, sleeping, and swimming. Did I mention that there will be a full moon? Did I mention that I will be virtually ALONE on this seventeen mile-long island with white beaches and wind-formed trees? Did I tell you that there is a band of wild horses there? And old abandoned mansions? Expect to see me in a few days, refreshed, glowing, vibrant. I will come home with the wind in my hair and sand in my toes. Nobody will have the power to upset me or make me angry. I will be a Goddess from the ocean, covered with pearls and foam. My patience will be more eternal than the waves. If someone makes me angry I will simply crash over them like a gentle wave. I will engulf obstacles.