The Driftwood & Tangled Wire Diner

The effort of basically tipping my life upside-down and hitting reset had taken up most of my attention and focus for several months. And when that trainwreck-process was over, I looked up to see I had landed in the tiny apartment I’ve referenced before. I’m not sure I have ever felt more rudderless and uncertain of what to do next.

Around that time, the movie “Dan In Real Life” was out. You know the one? The movie poster featured Steve Carell (Dan)’s face lying in a stack of pancakes. Anyway, I saw that movie when it was out and there was this moment when his character was in bed, and it’s completely covered in books and other reading material. And when I saw that, I was washed in familiarity. I thought: “Wow! That’s me and my bed!” I too would cover the unoccupied side of the bed in a melange of reading selections. I’m not sure this will make sense to anyone (except maybe Dan)… but I felt less alone with them there. They kept me company; they were my friends. They told me stories, gave me suggestions and direction; and presented interesting and captivating imagery. I wanted them there with me all night.  And, in fact, I would even purposefully fall asleep with my hand and arm resting over them in case I woke up. Yes, perhaps weird, but in retrospect a wiser choice than some of the bedfellows I’ve had.

So anyway, among the selections in my bed-library were a variety of magazines… including Variety. And Vogue, and Bust, and Esquire, and O Magazine, and Glamour. Don’t judge. Or, at least judge quietly.

So, one night, before drifting to sleep, I was flipping through O, and towards the back of the magazine, I stumbled across this piece. Like a good headline does- I was instantly pulled in and read it. And then I read it again. And again. And wondered who is this dude? And how cool that he got this about women and wrote it out with such elegant descriptives. I loved it. So much so I almost didn’t want to tell people  that I found it in O Magazine. But I did.

For one of the first times in my life, I felt a real genuine pride in being a member of the gentler sex. Through his observation, I saw the soft and beautiful power which we have but often don’t recognize. Or at least, I know I didn’t recognize in myself.  It has nothing to do with with age, or beauty, or what we say, or what we do, but simply our essence. It was such a wonderful feeling. “Whoa! So being a chick is really quite amazing.”

I tore the page out of the magazine and shared it with a few of my friends. Then I folded it up and saved it.

Flash forward four years later, and I still have it. I don’t think about it anymore, in fact, often I forget all about it until I discover it in a pocket of a jacket I haven’t worn in months. It’s folded into a small square and it’s looking pretty frayed. I rediscovered it again last week and as I opened it, I felt fragility and knew soon it would tear.

So for preservation reasons… and because I hope maybe someone else will enjoy this too, I’m re-posting it here.
Love yer women!

Ten Things I Know For Sure About Women.

By Mark Leyner

1. Even little girls, in all their blithe, unharrowed innocence, have a presentiment of sorrow, hardship, and adversity…of loss. Women, throughout their lives, have an intrinsic and profound understanding of Keats’ sentiments about “Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips Bidding adieu.”

2. This sage knowledge of, and ability to abide, the inherently fugitive nature of happiness somehow accounts for the extraordinary beauty of women as they age.

3. Women have an astonishing capacity to maintain their equilibrium in the face of life’s mutability, its unceasing and unforeseeable vicissitudes. And this agility is always in stark and frequently comical contradistinction to men’s naïvely bullish and brittle delusions that things can forever remain exactly the same.

4. Women are forgiving but implacably cognizant.

5. Women are almost never gullible but sometimes relax their vigilance out of loneliness. (And I believe most women abhor loneliness.)

6. In their most casual, offhand, sisterly moments, women are capable of discussing sex in such uninhibited detail that it would cause a horde of carousing Cossacks to cringe.

7. Women are, for all intents and purposes, indomitable. It really requires an almost unimaginable confluence of crushing, cataclysmic forces to vanquish a woman.

8. Women’s instincts for self-preservation and survival can seem to men to be inscrutably unsentimental and sometimes cruel.

9. Women have a very specific kind of courage that enables them to fling themselves into the open sea—whether it’s a new life for themselves, another person’s life, or even what might appear to be a kind of madness.

10. Women never—no matter how old they are—completely relinquish their aristocratic assumption of seductiveness.

And here is one last thing I know—and I know this with a certitude that exceeds anything I’ve said before: that men’s final thoughts in their waking days and in their lives are of women…ardent, wistful thoughts of wives and lovers and daughters and mothers.

Four years ago, April 19th fell on a Saturday night.  I remember this.  I spent most of April 19th’s day silently recovering from my four-millionth humiliating Friday night.  I was supposed to go out with two of my dearest girl friends after they got out of the play they were performing in.  They usually finished around 10 p.m.  Sadly.  Shamefully.  My Friday night couldn’t wait until then.  And so, I did what I always did.  I began. All alone in the littlest, unassuming apartment where I dwelled and hid-out-in following my divorce.   By 10 p.m., when I was supposed to meet the girls, I was fully tuned.  Too tuned. And once again, I hated myself.  It was too late.  I didn’t want to try and pull it together. I didn’t want to pretend.  I didn’t want to try and explain to them – normal people – why, all alone I got myself drunk. Again.  I didn’t want to be here at all.  I called them, came up with a lame-o reason why I wouldn’t meet them that night… and resumed my drinking until I could only crawl into my bed and out of my life.

The next day was April 19th.  I awoke like I did every single day of my adult life:  with a searing hangover and brimming with self loath.  I layed there, still.  Red eyes open and staring at the side of the night stand, I listened reverently to the voices in my mind.  They reminded me how awful I was to bail on my friends last night.  They went on to tell me how embarrassingly messed up I got, and what kind of a rotten person I am.  I listened as they told me I would always be alone. Always.  Because I would never, ever, ever be able to stop this horrific cycle that I’ve been doing all my life.  “I am complete as a failure.  I am weak.  I am a loser.”   I’ve never been strong enough and never will be.  This will be my life until the day. I. Die.  Full of disappointment.  Full of shame.   I felt a hot tear slide down my cheek and onto my pillow.  I was in so much pain.  I wish I could express to you how much.  It was like a million needles piercing and breaking through the skin of my soul.  I howled.  I actually howled.

But something was different that morning.  Different than the billion mornings like it before.  I called three people that morning, as I remained crumbled  in bed.  While dried tears made the side of my face crack as I spoke.  And I told them each that I had a problem.  That I was so fucking sad.  Unbelievably scared.  And I needed help.  White caps of fear, that I was actually doing this, towered above me and crashed on my head over and over.

What was I saying?
What was I doing?
And why?
Why on earth would I do this?

And what if i fail?

I mean, I am a failure, after all.

On the evening of April 19th I went out with a few (different) girl friends. I think I had four Stella Artois that night.  It was a nice spring evening, and we started out sitting out on the patio at Dolce Vita and ended up on the couches at Moulin Rouge.  I parted ways with them around 11p.m. The entire evening out with them I knew.  I silently knew: This would be my last night drinking. When I got home I think I had two more beers.  I sat alone on my couch in the dark, sipping the cans of beer and thinking about it all.  Shortly after that, I went to bed.

On Sunday, April 20, I woke up early.  Insanely early.  I got dressed.  Headed out the door and met a friend – for whom I will remain endlessly grateful for – and together we went to my first meeting.  I cannot think of a weirder experience I’ve ever had in my entire life.  But I didn’t care.  I was so fucking desperate.  As soon as my mouth opened, and heard myself say nine particular words for the very first time out loud, I cried.  I went to that exact same meeting at that insanely early time for the next 365 days.

That was four years ago.  Today I celebrate four amazing, interesting and challenging years learning how to live without a nightmare… learning how to deal with it all in this spectrum of life – from shattering pain, to naked, unabandoned bliss – without believing I need to disappear. Learning that I can survive the emotions.  And that they’re amazing.  All of them.

I didn’t know it then, I only barely know it now, but I gave myself a gift on April 20 four years ago.

All my molecules are singing today.  Gloriously and sweet.
I’m grateful.

these mere tokens have tremendous significance to me. tomorrow, i will get one with an IV on it.

Dear Sally,

I watched you as you crossed the lawn in my mind last night. The sky was dark and speckled with stars and the moon was peeking through a few clouds, illuminating everything in soft, fuzzy warmth. You were walking to the east towards an enchanting scent of lilacs that filled the spring air. Your nose was up and your eyes were clear and filled with wonder.

Sally, I love you.

I miss you.

I’m so happy I got to meet you a year ago as you lay relaxed on the kitchen floor of a charming little home in Palisade.  I dropped to my knees, down to you, and hugged your body… burying my face in the thick collar of fur that wraps your neck.

Sally you’re a sweet one. A heart full of love. I see the love and loyalty in your eyes when you look at Jef. I know you would be with him always, if you could.   A calm, deep and rich soul flows through you.  It’s so easy to love you, Sally.   So easy a soul to love.

A gift I had to know you and be with you, Sally.  Getting the chance to share apples with you.   I love watching you as you sniff a leaf, as you drift through the yard, as you sleep during the night- dreams of running prompting your legs ever so slightly.

Sally, it’s okay now. You’re moving swiftly and effortlessly to whatever scent is wafting by.

Sally, it’s okay now. You’re riding in the back of a truck. Feeling the windy cool air kiss your face as landscapes pass by in a blur.

Sally, it’s okay now.  You’re such a happy girl.

Maybe you’re in Texas tonight.

Maybe in Colorado still.

Sally are you outside tonight?

Are you resting on a pillow of leaves?

Are you running along a lakeside?

Or tonight, do you sleep here safely, next to me?

Even though I miss you so much, Sally, I want you to know you can go… wherever you want to go.

No matter where you are tonight Sally; in trucks and trees, in the wind and the leaves — you’re also here.

Always here.

In our hearts, you are home.

sexy, no?

Here is a confession for you that I don’t like admitting: When I was a little girl, I didn’t like to read. I thought it was boring and hard. I preferred pictures. I loved picture books.. I loved looking at images that were already there for me. Books with just words just bored me… why look at pages with a bunch of words, and then have to come up with my own images in my head!!? Bleh! Conversely, my sister was (is) an avid reader. Growing up, she was always reading… put anything in front of her from a book to the back of a cereal box…and she would read it. Of course, that was just so dazzling to my parents. ‘Wow- She’s just so bright and thirsty for knowledge! …It’s just too bad about her dim, younger sister’ … I was sure that’s what they thought.

I envied Julie’s need to read. But I just couldn’t get into it.

A few times a month my mom would take my sister and me to the local library. Despite it’s primary purpose being books and reading and all, I really liked the library. In my childhood memory, it was a place with endless rows of bookshelves to hide in, and tons and tons of little wooden drawers that pull out forever and are filled with cards! But by far, the best part was that the library had the coolest chairs. Big, weird-shaped, orange chairs. Some were swoopy and some were like orbs with a depression in the top to sink into. I loved the chairs! When we’d arrive at the library I would float over to the children’s section and find the bright, big, fun chairs to bounce and flop around on. My sister would gravitate to the books, sometimes I would follow her to see if I could pick up on what the fuss was about. While she perused what she was going to read next, I would glide my hands along the long rows of books, listening to the sound it made and feeling the different spines and textures as I went. That’s about all I could get out of it.

proper-posture reading

At one point, my mom introduced me to the stereoscope. For those who probably don’t know, it’s an ancient piece of equipment to look at photos (Again, me,with the pictures.) I think it was the dinosaur-version of the View Master… and not nearly as cool at all. I’d look at sepia tone images of cars, landscapes, churches and strangers. It held my attention for awhile, but not for long.

When it was time for us to check out, my sister would inevitably approach with an impressive stack of books, and I would always approach empty-handed. I think this trend was starting to unnerve my mom a little bit, so in an effort to encourage my interest in reading, she began requiring me to check-out at least one book every time we went. <sigh> So, on our next visit to the library, I drifted to the book area and found a Hägar the Horrible paperback, and checked that out. And, for the next several times we went, I checked it out, again and again. (By the way, I highly recommend it. Funny stuff). But my mom caught on. So, then I was forced to check out a real book, with lots of words, and no pictures. And worse, I would be required to read it, and tell my mom what it was about. <Guh!> So, after spending an eternity looking for something interesting among the bland book section Julie chose from, I finally settled on a small, hardback biography about Walter Sears. I chose it only because I recognized his name in conjunction with the big, lame department store we sometimes went to.

why this hasn't won an award, i'll never know.

And guess what: It. Was. So. BORRRRRING!! Insanely boring. I stared blankly at the words with bone crushing boredom. Throughout the week I had it, my mom would ask me what it was about and I could tell her nothing. …even to this day, I couldn’t tell you about the guy, except for his namesake Sears.  And so, it was around that time I thought as a reader, I was a confirmed, absolute failure. My sister Julie would be the smart-successful reader; and I would be slow– destined to push a mop around in a truck-stop somewhere. …Because you know, that’s what happens to girls who don’t read!

But, if you will please allow me to jump ahead for a moment – flashing forward to the present –I’m not a failure as a reader. And furthermore, much to my surprise (and maybe my mom’s surprise), I L-O-V-E love reading. It’s one of my favorite things to do. But, how I got from there to here was obviously not the same path as my sister, and perhaps not traditional.

Clearly, I wasn’t born with that built-in desire to read. Although I may have had an appetite to learn and discover, I needed some training wheels. And, I needed to let go of a perception I had that reading was like some ‘high-end religion’ that I wasn’t successful enough to be a member of.  Reading is a gift; it’s something to be enjoyed at any level. Not a laborious task that you’re either good at or you suck at. I admire my sister’s ability to absorb it all like a brainy sponge– but that’s not how it is for everyone. That’s not how it was for me. …and that’s okay. ((I’m telling myself this more than I’m telling you this, by the way)). To me, the big point was: It’s not what I read; it’s the fact that I am reading! That’s how I had to approach it, anyway. …Does that make sense?

Therefore, the dots that run along my reading-historical-timeline do not look like my sister’s. It is not a collection of literature that is particularly sophisticated, and certainly not cerebral. At all. It’s not a direct reflection of how smart I am (God, I hope not!) But, nevertheless, I am not ashamed of it. It was the path I took that allowed me to get to this place where I am today, where readings fills my cup.

Perhaps shallow, yes… but my appreciation for the written word did honestly begin with books like Hägar the Horrible. Hägar led to all the Archie Comic Digests, which in turn led to the entire Mrs. Piggle Wiggle series, which then led to many, many Encyclopedia Browns, which led to my first ‘cry-read’: Charolette’s Web, which led to Runaway Ralph, which led to all of Bloom County, which led to Little House in the Big Woods, which led to Go Ask Alice, which eventually led to many, many record album liner-notes, Tiger-Beat and Seventeen magazine articles  … and so on. There is plenty more, but you get the idea.

These are the stories that held my attention. Lame, light-content, and low-brow as they may be, these are the stories that made me a reader.  And for that, I am so grateful for all the writers who wrote them. And more-so, I remain grateful to all the writers who endeavor to put their words out there today. Whether it’s comic, classic, or clumsy… chances are it’s being read. And well, who knows… even though it may not be Pulitzer Prize winning, it may be inspiring some little girl who follows her big sister around in a library– to read.

And who doesn’t think reading is cool… and even kind of sexy? …Certainly not this Riverdale aficionado.

Winter was ordered to leave us this weekend. And like so many who are begrudgingly handed their walking-papers, winter left with a big, fat, crappy attitude. Giving us the ol’ middle finger as he headed out the door; he flung a yucky, cold, wet mess over his shoulder behind him. That was most of Saturday night and all of Sunday; and it made for pretty much a no-bueno weekend. And because of his little petulant display, we all had to pull back out our sweaters and coats, and scrape off frost from windows in the morning… all to acknowledge that winter “was here, dammit.” So there you go, winter… we got it, okayeee?

In the meantime, spring quietly slipped in. And subtly each day since the weekend, the temperature has steadily risen. Monday rolled into Tuesday, rolled into Wednesday, and scarves and jackets slowly peeled off again. Evidence of her entrance has shown up in darling, little buds on the trees, and green grass squeezing in for more territory among the yellow. All around town, the bold-bladed leaves of bulbs have broken through the earth, and are trumpeting the near-future arrival of tulips, daffodils and all those other showboat-ladies. As far as I can tell, sweet and lithe spring is here.

And so, in conjunction with this weather becoming so damn fine, I pulled my trusty, red bike out of hibernation today.  The distance between my home and work is nice and short. Unless I have to go off-site for something, I pretty much walk or ride every single day. In the winter, for some reason, my tendency is to let the bikes chill out at home and I walk to work.

But today… today was so lovely for resuming my little rides again.   And even better… I wasn’t the only one who thought so. When I pulled up to the bike rack after lunch, there were at least five bikes on it. That’s four more than there were this morning when I got here.  So, I pushed them all out of the way because who the eff are these?! And… (I’m kidding of course!)

I mean, I happily and proudly (Yay, fellow workers who ride to work too!) I slid my bike in next to them, and let it have a drink at the troff while I went inside.

For this and many reasons more, I’m happy spring is here!

"come on already! quit dinking around with your camera phone and let's GO!"

Editor Note:  I’ve been running my hand along this proverbial wall for a few months now, looking for a reentry point. I wanted so much to come back here and write again.

I began this blog in January of 2011. I needed a place to pour out and sort through a few of the tangled and dangling feelings I’d been ignoring for most of my life. It was my hope that by sharing them I could get clarity and heal. And, I needed a ritual. I made a commitment to myself to post several times a month- and, I actually did! I liked it! I came here regularly to write and post to whoever listened and looked. The experience ended up being really great therapy for me.

But, like most of the best things in my life… it was temporary. I stayed with it for a good while, until slowly my interest became diffused. Something (or someone) caught my attention and eventually I was pulled away. That’s what happened here, and I don’t regret it, really. Some really good things were happening. I put my focus on that.

But dang, I missed sharing in this blog. I missed writing, and seeing the variety of ponderings, lessons, observations, and revelations unfold on paper (cyber-paper that is). I thought about returning here again at least 28 times… but I didn’t know how. Isn’t that weird? I couldn’t think of how to begin again. The question “what should I write about?” kept coming back unanswered. I couldn’t find a reentry point.

I spoke about it a few times with Jef, and he suggested that perhaps because I wasn’t in the same “emotional place” (code: big ol’ confused mess) – my words, not his – therefore, I didn’t need to write-it-all-out the way I once did. Hmmm. Maybe he was right. We all know what an excellent muse pain can be. A lot of really amazing creative projects are born out of strife, or hurt, or grief. Not that my writing was anything brilliant like that at all ((although I thought there were some decent ones in there)) as I began to heal, my urge to purge with writing started to fade.

Well, hmmm. I want to write again. So, I guess that means I will have to learn to write from different emotional places. Boy this learning-crap never ends, does it? Anyway. Without further blathering, here is my first (and hopefully not alone for long) post of 2012.

My sister’s birthday is March 14. (Happy Birthday, Julie! Thanks for always going first!) We celebrated it last Saturday by having the usual suspects gather at my mom’s house for pizza and salad for dinner, followed by swoon-inducing chocolate cake made. from. scratch.   Ahem. It was a really nice excuse for the family et all to get together.  None of this was particularly share-worthy per se, aside from this one small moment – where my heart swelled to the size of a stack of Winnebagos – and for a moment I think I got just a dizzying taste of what it must be like.

It was that sweet twilight moment apres dessert and no one had left the table yet. Cloth napkins had been removed from laps and rested alongside empty plates, half finished cups of coffee, and a few Fat Tire empties. Everyone was sitting there as the sun lowered in sky outside. We were talking about gardening, or Texas, or wine, or something… I wasn’t really listening too closely because, on my lap was this precious and beautiful little person; my six-month-old niece, Allison.

She was standing up on my thighs with her tiny little feet-(complete with ten teeny tiny toes)!  She was facing me as she balanced and wobbled; knees bending and straightening and bending again. Like those toys where you push the button on the bottom with your thumb, and the horse, or dog, or bird collapses. She did that over and over- the whole time while her small hands hung on to my shirt, or my finger, or my hair, for support. Then she stopped, and she just stood there looking at me. She stared straight into my eyes; looking deep inside me – behind the insecurity and the ego and the vanity and the trivial junk I keep around in there – alllll the way back to my soul, where everything is still. That is where she went. And I went there too, with her. Her big, dark blue eyes stayed on me. And she smiled. Her tiny mouth formed this darling, giant, open smile of pure joy and wonder. Her eyes widened as did her smile.  And then it faded slightly as thoughts crossed over her face like storms clouds rolling across the sky. I smiled at her. And I meant it. And a smile spread across her face again.

I fell so far into this moment that the room, the people at the table, the plates and cups, and the setting sun, all disappeared around me. Allison and I were the only two in the whole world. Just two little souls dancing. And all I wanted in life was that moment for just one more second… always.  How fortunate you all are- if you have this, or have had this.

On Saturday, surrounded by loved ones, I fell in love with her. Again. Just like the last time I held her a few months before. It blows me away- this feeling. She keeps finding her way into me and I am so blissfully defenseless it almost scares me.  What is that?

I’m just so happy she is here.

I met somebody new on September 28, 2011. And when I say “new,” I mean it. She was about 6 hours old, and I instantly became so intoxicatingly smitten with her.

Her name is Allison. Allison Celeste. And she is my niece. The newest member of our family.  And I will go ahead and say it, whether it’s obnoxious or not– she is the most adorable little baby I have ever seen, nuzzled and snuggled up my arms. Her soft, gentle skin, her tiny fingers and toes and nose. Her little breaths in and out and in, and out… gosh, she is already so smart. I’m afraid I may have fallen in love a little.

I started to write this paragraph here about eleven times. Typing, reading and deleting. I am not sure how to say what to say. Why? Because, sometimes I have a difficult time with the baby-topic. Why? Because, I don’t have one, and I don’t think I will have one. And depending on the day and the time and the moon and whatever else– that can be a blessing, or a break in my heart. I’ve resigned myself to that now. On this subject I will glide up and down a spectrum of gratitude for having abundance of space, freedom, independence; opportunity that non-parents are afforded, and, a deep, heavy ache within me that I will never have the gift that I watched my sister receive that day. My eyes lower and I sigh.

I am so glad Allison is here. From the moment I heard about her, I’ve been looking forward to her. I am not sure why, but it feels like I’ve been waiting and now she’s here, and I’m relieved.  Strange?  Yes. Such a strange “place” I am with this. And I really do not know. How to honor it, mourn it, celebrate it, release it. So I will just pause. I don’t know. It isn’t one thing, it’s a million. And they overlap and weave into a strange, beautiful, warm, soft, heavy tapestry. That’s about all I can say for now.

hard at work

The question at hand:
When riding my bike to work, how can I transport my sweet and creamy coffee beverage in the saddle-bag-basket so it doesn’t bounce all around, and, yet still maintain the bike’s playful, classic “joie de vivre” aesthetic, which I dig?

I conferred with a very small team of folks on this predicament.  I received some productive, positive feedback and several strong suggestions were offered.   A high-ranking member of said-conferring-team and I then decided to make a trip to the neighborhood hardware store to do some field-research and assess their inventory of potential materials which could be incorporated into coffee-holder-design.

When there – (in an aisle with a whole bunch of metal-thingys) – a highly attractive solution presented itself.  Apparently, it is known as a “U” bolt.   I have no idea what it’s primary function is.  I’m sure it is important, though.

check out these weird things! ....hey!

ANYWAY!  With the invaluable insight and input of my concomitant hardware-store companion, the ideal resolution to the coffee-carry-caddy was achieved.  And now I am successfully able to ride to work with my java securely in place and ready for me to resume consumption upon arrival.

Voila!

no more bouncing... sit tight and i'll be right with you.

A few weeks ago, while I was on my lunch break, I did a little mid-day trolling on Facebook. I don’t have Facebook access at work (probably good), so, usually when I’m home at lunch I’ll pop on to the social network for a moment and see what I missed.

And, on this particular day, while scrolling down the news feed, I stumbled onto something that caught my eye. It was from the Avett Brothers. Yes, I’m friends with the Avett Brothers. Okay, I mean I’m friends with them on Facebook. Okay so maybe, technically it’s more like I’m a “fan” or I “like” them… or whatever it’s called. I have no doubt that if we all actually knew each other in real life we’d all be wildly successful friends. Alas, destiny seems to have overlooked that obvious connection.

Anyway. On Facebook, the Avett Brothers posted a link to a contest they were a part of. It was in conjunction with the Gate City Rotary Club of Greensboro, North Carolina. The Avett Brothers (who are from North Carolina, by the way), are currently on tour and had a show coming up in Greensboro. The contest was to do a t-shirt design that “incorporates your favorite Avett Brothers’ lyric and the values of the Gate City Rotary whose mission is to provide service to others, promote integrity and advance world understanding, goodwill and peace through fellowship.” The top three t-shirt designs would then be chosen by the Rotary Club, and the winning design would be chosen by the Avett Brothers. The winner would get tickets to the concert in Greensboro for herself and a friend, and, while at the concert, the winner would be brought up on stage to showcase her design, and lastly, she would get a backstage-pass and meet after the show.

GAH!

Well, this basically jumped right off my monitor and into my lap! The Avett Brothers (who I love) and designing a t-shirt based on one of their lyrics (which I love)? I mean, come ON! Of course I’m going to do this. You may be wondering if I considered that North Carolina is fairly far away from where I live. Yes. And, that weighed little against the value would what I’d win. Figuring out how to get to North Carolina to meet the Avett Brothers seemed like the sort of high-quality problem I’d like to have. So, I reviewed the Gate City mission statement a couple times, and then began a long process of sorting through the savory catalog of Avett Brothers songs to decide on a lyric to design.

Although it was a scrumptious undertaking, it wasn’t easy. I had to take into consideration that what my mind’s eye may see as lovely and beautiful doesn’t always transfer to a one-image design. Among any of the many Avett Brothers songs there’s a cacophony of delicious imagery… from empty bottles wedged in the branches of magnolia tree to “…a flower in a field/ A field of cars and people; rows of concrete, paint, and steel…” Oh, I could just go on and on… But I won’t.

For the next many hours, I pondered and poured over all the AB tunes, like a teenage girl with her turntable. And I have to admit, although I knew I had to incorporate the Rotary Club’s mission, that part drifted down in my priority list a bit in leu of designing based on a song/lyric had personal pleasure and meaning to me and, would be able to translate successfully into a simple, clean, visually easy t-shirt design. I figured I’ll design first, and then figure out how it relates to the Rotary Club’s mission statement later. (Hmm… that might be a little difficult for a song like “I Killed Sally’s Lover.”) Dang, I guess that one’s out.

So! In the waking hours of next 48 to 60 hours I focused on this project. Designs and decisions of fonts and colors and styles and layouts morphed from one to the other, all accompanied by the Avetts’ lyrics. I’d narrowed it down to three or four different lines from different songs; and for each I had a specific style and direction I envisioned. Each of those envisioned-directions were in part inspired by some absolutely amazing graphic-design portfolios I’d been admiring for the past few months. Therefore, blending certain lyrics from music I treasure, with graphic styles that I’ve wanted to try, became an unforeseen much-needed experience for me. Such a sweet inspiration like I haven’t felt in so long pulsed through me. I liked it. I liked it all.

In two-to-three days time, I had a few designs strongly underway that I was pleased with. I was having such an inspirationally-charged time creating, I’d almost forgot the whole point of why I was doing this in the first place! Confident that I had some stuff that Scott, Seth, Bob and Joe would appreciate, I returned to the contest-website to check on the details of submitting.

Be still my heart.

The Deadline.

The Deadline.

The. Dead. Line.

I missed the deadline. By one day. ONE day. I felt my heart sink as I mentally raced through ways I could actually create some sort of time alteration to allow me to get these in. Once I determined that wasn’t possible, I then turned on myself– how stupid and careless I was! Why didn’t I pay attention?? Why was I so stupid? Why?! I smacked myself on the proverbial forehead enough to make it sting. And then stopped. It wasn’t helping. Pro-action in this situation was drastically low, but I had this sliver of an option: I could call a woman named Darlene, whose name was listed as the contact person for the Gate City Rotary Club and the Avett Brothers t-shirt design contest, and plead with her. So that is what I did.

When she answered her voice was a thick, sweet syrup of North Carolina charm. I told her who I was, where I was, what had happened, explained that I only found out about the contest a couple days ago, and at the end asked her if there would be any possible way for me to submit my designs even though they were late. She was very nice and understanding. She told me that the response on this contest had been a big surprise to her and she was overwhelmed at the level of love and following that the Avett Brothers clearly have. (I’m so not surprised.) She said the designs she received were all good and that sadly, they’d all be handed over to the Rotary Club for selection and some of them had already chosen their favorites. In other words… it was too late.

I nodded in understanding. Although it was a heavy blow, following the guidelines and bowing out was the right and fair thing to do.. (sort of like the values in the Rotary Club’s mission and just like so many Avett Brothers’ songs). Darlene wrapped up by telling me in her sugary accent how sorry she was and that maybe they would do this again another time. I thanked her and we said goodbye.

Yeah, I was pretty bummed out after that. But, to my surprise, it didn’t last long. Honestly, I couldn’t get past the darn good experience I had designing, regardless of not getting them in on time. It fed something in me that I didn’t know was hungry.

And, as weird as this sounds, I even enjoyed making a random little connection with a faceless nice lady named Darlene that lives her life somewhere in the state of North Carolina miles and miles away from me.

Since that day, I spent a little more time working on the designs and decided to post them here.

The first design- very simple- is from the song “I and Love and You” is and is also the album’s name. I considered that this might get used a lot as a lyric-design choice, but oh-well, I just couldn’t ignore how much I adore it, regardless. Such a beautiful song and sentiment.

So, to counter what might be a popular lyric choice, I went for something I reckoned probably wouldn’t be used… The second design is from a song entitled “Distraction #74” off their FOUR THIEVES GONE: THE ROBBINSVILLE SESSIONS album. It’s a salty-sweet little ditty about a siren-seduced fellow getting caught between two girls. The song references when “I left your house this morning in that ragged Thunderbird” …and that was the main part of my inspiration for the design.

The third design is from one of my favorite of their recent songs. It is also off the I AND LOVE AND YOU album and the song is entitled “Head Full of Doubt, Road Full of Promise.” I think perhaps every single line in this song resonates with me, including the one I chose to design.

And, the last design…. I designed after I found out I missed the deadline. I did it for fun. I couldn’t resist. It might be my favorite of them all. It’s a line from the song “I Killed Sally’s Lover.”