Daily Detritus: Day Eleven

“—and then we will talk to a woman who takes care of over 70 cats—”

“—just try and use your old paper towels to clean up this mess—”

“—Williams for the three... and it’s good and that gives the—”

Tweeeeeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” Jillian turned up the volume on the television to try and drown out the whistle sounds coming from upstairs.

“—and see this right here? This is a load bearing wall and it is improperly—”

Tweeeeeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet.

“That old bat is going to drive me nuts with that stupid whistle! Whose idea was that anyway?” Jillian knew the answer. She was the one who came up with the clever plan to give her grandmother the whistle so she could signal her when she needed something. What Jillian never imagined was that her grandmother would need something every five minutes and that the house would end up sounding like a basketball game.

She sat for a few minutes, hoping that her grandmother would give up but she knew that was not going to transpire. It never did.

Tweeeeeeeeeet. Tweeeeeeet.

Jillian shut off the television and hoisted herself up from her chair. “How much longer is she going to hang on?” she wondered. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take.”

As she walked up the stairs an idea began forming. With each step it gained clarity and made more sense. When she arrived at the top landing she knew it could work. But did she have the guts to follow through?

Tweeeeeeeeeet.

“I’m coming, Gran.” Yes, she did.


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Daily Detritus: Day Ten

Monica closed her bedroom door and slowly, quietly, slid the lock in place. She turned, leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. It had been an awful day and she needed a few minutes to collect herself before dinner. She inhaled a lung filling amount of air, held it for the count of twenty and then slowly let it escape her pursed lips. The tears followed.

She wiped her eyes and walked to her bed, sat down and opened the drawer of her night stand. Monica cherished the small book. It was the one place she could be honest and unashamed with no fear of reprisal. She fumbled with the tiny lock, using a finger nail to spin the three numbers to their proper places. With pen in hand she opened the cover and stopped at a flash of pink on the front page. It was a small note stuck in the middle of the inside front cover and her breathing went shallow knowing she had not left it there.

The note was written hastily, but legible, and it stated, “You should be ashamed of yourself. And you will be. Go to www.monicasdiary.com to see what everyone else is reading.”

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Daily Detritus: Day Nine

Pam’s mother walked to the pantry and, after a few seconds of rummaging around, pulled together a startling potpourri of snacks. Most were bags of chips, crackers and nuts with very little content, just enough to keep them around.

“Mom, do you ever throw anything away?”

“Sure I do, when the bags get empty.” She deposited the pile on the kitchen counter and began sorting. “Why would I do it any sooner? That would be wasteful.”

Pam could only shake her head in recognition. She was so much like her mom that the answer to her previous question was actually redundant. She sat quietly as her mom unclipped bags and emptied their contents on a platter, creating a dry, dusty, stale appetizer assortment, supposedly for her to enjoy.

“Come sit at the table with me. Those chairs at the bar are too uncomfortable.” Her mom placed the platter between them, sat and lifted her wine glass in a toast. “To survival. To family. To friends.”

She took a small sip, set the glass down and looked Pam in the eyes and asked, “Now, what’s up?”

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Daily Detritus: Day Eight

“Good grief it's loud in here.” Cliff looked around, the club swimming with folks trying to engage by talking, yelling, over the sound system. “No way you can hook up with this noise.”

He turned back to the bar, grateful he had secured a stool but also despondent by the knowledge he had been hanging out at the bar since it opened. He took a pull on his beer and set the bottle down, careful to place it directly on the water ring it had formed.

“Hey.” He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned slowly, not wanting to seem eager to fight or converse, whichever was next. His eyes met the soft stare of Nicole Blanton, former friend, former human.

“Nicole?”

She leaned in so he could her her say, “Yep.” She just smiled, her face or voice offering nothing else.

“But, you died!” Cliff was trying to process through the beer haze but his mind was not currently a well oiled machine.

“Did I?” And she laughed.

“Well, yeah... I mean, I went to your funeral!”

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Vera's First Show

Hope and I traveled to Tampa this Saturday to watch Vera play their first show at the Crowbar in Ybor City. They were the unadvertised opening act and were only given 15 minutes but my totally based opinion is they killed those three songs. The were well received by the crowd and it was a great way to get their feet wet in a live venue. As Will said from the stage, "It's our first show but it's also the best show we've ever played!" And, yes, I video taped the entire show. More to come...

The members of Vera outside the Crowbar before going on:
Calen (Management), Erich (keyboards), Jordan (drums),
Will (guitar/vocals), Rob (bass) and Patrick (guitar).

Daily Detritus: Day Seven

Daryl pulled on the drawer handles, yanking the wooden receptacle past an obstruction that made it stick halfway. His father had passed away three weeks earlier and he was just now getting around to clearing out the house. The closets were easy, he didn’t own much, but now he needed to go through the top dresser drawer, a repository of his dad in symbols.

He and his sister had always been curious about that top drawer. While the rest of the dresser held the usual—t-shirts, underwear, shorts, socks—the top drawer seemed to be the catch-all for everything else. He remembered his mom constantly harping on his dad to clean it out, to throw away that “junk,” to make room for... more junk. And now it was his turn to grant his long gone mother’s wishes.

It was full. He could barely get the drawer pulled out far enough to look inside without some of the contents dropping off the side. At first glance it was a mess, a hodgepodge of papers, cards and trinkets, randomly shoved in the space, probably to deal with later. But with no one around to berate him into cleaning it out, his dad just added to the menagerie.

Daryl started pulling the papers from the top layer, mainly old birthday cards and letters, and he tried to focus on the task at hand—to clean the entire drawer—and did not stop to read their contents; he could do that later. He quickly pealed back several layers, dropping them in the brown grocery bag at his feet, and felt he was making good headway. This was going to be easier than he had anticipated.

Then he spotted a small box in the right, front corner. He knew right away what was inside and he wasn’t sure he wanted to look. But he knew he would. He took a deep, cleansing breath and pulled back the lid. Inside were all of his dad’s tie clips. There were at least twenty of varying shapes and sizes. Daryl pushed them around with his finger, reviewing the contents and smiled.

His dad always wore a tie. It didn’t matter the time of day or the state of the weather, he felt a true gentleman was always more presentable in a necktie and he considered himself to be a gentleman. It wasn’t until Daryl’s mom died that he wore them less and less. Daryl chuckled. “Maybe mom was the one he was trying to impress all along.”

He picked up one of the tie clips and held it up for examination. “I think he wore this one at my wedding,” Daryl mused. “Odd how I remember things like that.” He picked up another one and tried to lock in on a time and place to associate it with, but he couldn’t raise up a memory. He fished around in the box and spotted one of his dad’s favorites, a black and gold rectangle that he always felt made him look a little more classy. Daryl leaned forward, resting his arms on the front of the drawer, turning the tie clip over in his hands. “I’m pretty sure he had this one on the day he got arrested...”

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Daily Detritus: Day Six

Jimmy turned the page of the magazine, adjusted his glasses and scanned the text, vaguely hoping for something of interest to dig into. He was not disappointed that nothing piqued his interest; he would rather feign reading and let his mind rest. The last two weeks had been a drain both mentally and physically and he cherished a rare chance to sit and do nothing. It wasn’t long before his eyes gave way to his body and slowly closed, his hands gradually resting on top of the magazine in his lap. Sleep may have been an intruder but it was not asked to leave.

“Jimmy.” The voice was in the distance, barely registering, but unfortunately cutting into his rest.

“Jimmy, are you awake?” A little louder but still not enough to respond.

“Jimmy...Jimmy. Are you awake?” He wanted to answer “obviously not since I am not responding” but couldn’t muster the strength.

Jimmy!” The voice was more urgent and accompanied by a shove to his shoulder. He opened one eye, slightly, and saw an out-of-focus mass, somewhat shaped like his wife.

“What?” he whispered.

“What, indeed!” She shoved something toward him, quick enough to make him flinch. He was slowly gaining consciousness, although the object in her hand was too close to his face to allow him to get it in focus.

“What is your problem?” he croaked, trying to regain his senses and his full voice. “What is that?”

“No, that’s my question.” She stood to her full height and defiantly placed one hand on her hip, elbow out, a small bar of hotel soap displayed in the other hand which she centered in front of her chest. “Where did this come from?” Her entire body and soul asked that question.

Jimmy was now fully awake. “I have no idea, Beth.” It was a weak response, he knew that, but it was a stop gap, something to throw out there to slow her down until he could form a better defense.

“You’re going to have to do better than that.” She was not going to move, that was obvious. “I’m waiting.”


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Daily Detritus: Day Five

“Hey, watch this.” Wade clicked on his book light and pointed it toward his bedroom wall, the one directly over his cousin Drew’s bed. He put one hand in front of the glow and eventually centered the created shadow in the middle of the light beam. Contorting his hand, he was able to create something that resembled a rabbit and both boy’s laughed as he moved it up and down like it was bounding across the room.

“Do something else.” Drew’s request was followed by a weak attempt at an alligator head but, with some slight adjustments, he was able to make the mouth open and shut using his thumb as the bottom jaw. The boy’s got another chuckle and then tried to decide what to create next. Wade’s mom had insisted they go to bed way too early, at least for a Friday night, and neither boy was near ready for sleep.

“I’ve got an idea,” Wade announced. “Watch this.” He manipulated his fingers to create what looked like a “C” and then poked his middle finger down just enough to resemble a tooth. He moved his fingers up and down in a chomping motion and added the requisite sound effects. He slowly lowered the light source and his hand toward Drew, gnashing and biting, growling and moaning until he was right on top of Drew’s head, which was now hidden under a comforter but shaking as Drew laughed and feigned fear.

With one final bite, Wade’s shadow hand encircled Drew’s head and howled in triumph. As Wade’s monster noises died down, he tried to coax Drew from under the covers.

“C’mon, man, the monster has completed his reign of terror.” Drew’s bed wasn’t moving. No laughter, no giggling, not even a snore. “Drew! C’mon, you can come out now, the monster is gone.” His request was met with silence.

Wade got out of bed and took two steps to quickly cross the space between their beds and jumped, landing on top of Drew. As Wade bounced off the mattress and careened into the wall he couldn’t believe he had missed Drew on his flop. He reached up and yanked the comforter down and saw nothing but a pillow.

Drew was gone.

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Daily Detritus: Day Four

Stanley looked up from his lunch and stared at the station wagon disappearing around the bend of County Road 12. A blur, then tail lights. Here, then gone.

“Where do they go?” he wondered. “And what do they do when they get there?” He ambled over to another patch of grass, ate it and chewed slowly.

Slowly. Everything he did, he did slowly. There was no need to be in a hurry since his life was pre-ordained. Sleep, wake up, eat, drink, sleep again. The routine was ingrained, instinctual. All within the confines of a barbed wire fence, all dictated by the careful monitoring of the owner’s master plan.

Within an hour he had worked his way to the tree by the road. So far, five cars had driven by, only one honking to get his attention. Or to scare him, he wasn’t sure. Didn’t matter, really, because he had grown immune to the screech of their horns. He looked up with another mouthful of grass, content to chew, breaking it down for consumption, when he noticed something that made his heart quicken. A tree limb had snapped off and fallen on the fence, flattening an entire section. Stanley blinked, twice, and then spit the grass back to the ground. For the first time in his life he had an option. He could leave the field and finally find out where those cars go.

And what they do when they get there.

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Daily Detritus: Day Three

“Let me have those.” Jeff’s statement came across as more of a command than a request.

“Those cookies? Dude, I have no idea how long those have been there.” Alan didn’t look up from his computer but did nod his head toward the two ginger snaps sitting on the counter. “My roommate bought those last week and for all I know he’s using them for an experiment. I wouldn’t touch those with gloves.”

“Experiment? Heh, that’s funny—”

“I’m serious. he works at some lab that he won’t or can’t tell me anything about and is always taking trips to God knows where and is gone for two or three weeks at a time.” Alan stopped reading his screen and looked at Jeff. “I honestly would not touch those cookies.”

Jeff tilted his head and squinted, conducting an internal debate on the validity of Alan’s assessment. After 30 seconds he leaned forward and grabbed both cookies. “You are full of crap.” As he popped the first one in his mouth he added, “And I’m hungry.”

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Daily Detritus: Day Two

“Hurry and tear off another strip.” Angie was contorted around a rectangle package, the fingers of her left hand holding down a flap of Hello Kitty® wrapping paper, right elbow securing another and right hand awkwardly reaching toward her friend, Sabra, anticipating the requested tape.

“Chill out, dork! I can’t tear it off!” Sabra struggled with the serrated edge of the dispenser, finally ripping away a small piece of tape.

“I’m a dork? You’re a double dork! You can’t even tear the tape off right!” Sabra pushed the tape across the tip of Angie’s nose and laughed as she fruitlessly tried to reach it with her minimally free hand.

“Get it off me! I am serious! I have to finish this!”

“Okay, okay... dork!” Sabra reached over and yanked the tape from Angie’s nose, handing it to her in one arc. “Do you think she’ll like it? I mean, it’s a little weird, you know?”

“I don’t think it’s, like, weird at all. Different? Sure. But def not weird.” Angie held up the wrapped package eye level and inspected all the corners, pleased with the final product. “But we’re getting ready to find out if it’s been worth the trouble and if she’ll forgive me. Let’s go...”

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Daily Detritus: Day One

"You gonna answer that?" Peggy searched Owen's face for a hint that he had even heard the phone ring... six times.

"What?" Owen snapped his head toward her, his face contorted into a scowl.

"I said, 'You gonna get that?'"

"Nope. Nobody I'm intrested in talkin' to." He turned away from her and re-focused his attention on his tuna sandwich.

Peggy reached for the vibrating phone and was shocked at the quickness of Owen's hand grabbing her wrist, his grip tighter than required to impede her progress.

"No," his glare reinforcing the simple command.

Peggy returned the stare and growled through clinched teeth, "You have crossed the line and you have three seconds to return to a safer place."

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The Last Day

On the last day of 1959, I was three months old.

On the last day of 1969, I was in 5th grade, concentrating on who was wearing my I.D. bracelet that week, blissfully unaware of the cruelty that awaited me in Junior High.

On the last day of 1979, I was a sophomore in college, scrambling to get through my core courses so I could “live” in the Fine Arts Building and never take math again.

On the last day of 1989, I was less than two months away from moving my family back to Tallahassee, Florida, although I had no idea that was about to happen.

The last day of 1999 is blurry, a warm soup of raising kids, making a living and striving. Always striving.

And now it is the last day of 2009. This morning I hugged my youngest child and prayed him off to school in Ft. Lauderdale. When my wife and I return to the house this evening we will experience our first few minutes of what is joyfully and/or sadly referred to as the “empty nest” phase of our lives.

And a happy New Year to you as well...

Corner Approaching...

In three days, my oldest child, my son, will get married. The emotional smoothie I am drinking is, ultimately, refreshing and satisfying although there may be a few chunks of baggage stuck to my teeth (please let me know if you see any...). I am looking forward to a great weekend and the chance to watch a new couple create their own home and family story. God bless you both and thank you for making me happy...

¡Cuánto tiempo! ¡Tanto tiempo sin verte!

My daughter posted a simple sentence online: “I need an adventure.”

Yeah, I get that.

This last month has represented a few milestones for me. My youngest son travelled south to go to school, my daughter moved out to her own place in town and I turned 50. The one child at home is my oldest, trying to finish school and plan a December wedding. That is a lot of change to digest in a few short weeks but, honestly, I am good with it all. In fact, I am more than good. I am excited for everyone and the steps they are taking to get on with their lives. To break out of the confines of the walls of our house (literally and figuratively) and begin to create their own stories.

But now I contend with a nagging question: Where does that leave me? A long time ago I adjusted my career goals from whatever far-fetched illustrator/designer dreams I could imagine to simply preparing my three kids to leave my house equipped to take on the world—emotionally and, more importantly, spiritually. It has been an incredible ride, an adventure, that has been a crazy mix of happy and sad tears, lots of prayer and more work than I would have thought necessary when I made my vow. And it has been marvelously satisfying.

But it does raise the question, “What now?” In the micro, my wife and I will still parent, we will still dispense advice and we will strive to be ridiculously awesome grandparents (one day), but when I look at things high level I wonder: What is next? There are infinite possibilities—I come up with something every three minutes or so—but nothing has seemed right. No idea has slipped into a slot comfortably, so I wait. Again. This is not an unusual spot to be in, this life rest stop, but, before, I knew what I was waiting on. An answer, a check, a decision. Now? I have no idea. It’s an interesting, restless plateau. I have reported for duty and await my orders. And my next adventure.

Effort, Rewarded

“Art never responds to the wish to make it democratic; it is not for everybody; it is only for those who are willing to undergo the effort needed to understand it.”

Flannery O'Connor

The Journey Begins

The family traveled to Ft. Lauderdale this past Labor Day weekend to take Jordan to school. Here are a few pictures from the weekend. Jordan started class yesterday and his limited report last night was positive. Pray for Jordan and the rest of the students and faculty at Ocean’s Edge. This is their largest class in the four year history of the school so they are breaking some new ground this year.

OE has a blog you can follow as well and today they have posted some pictures from orientation. If you look closely, you can see the Colle family table in the background of several shots. I am sure there will be more stories to post as the year progresses. Until then, enjoy the pictures...

The Class of 2010

Jordan in the group shot

Jordan at orientation. I wonder what is going through his mind at this point? (Probably, "I wish my parents would leave already...")

Jordan and Laura at dinner Saturday night.

Last family picture before we left. It is late and dark hence the funky lighting issues but I am glad the event was recorded.

Striving

My life has been one long project propelled by a continuously stoked fire of striving. Always a book to read, a story to write, an idea to flesh out. Always. And usually more than one at a time. In the rare moments when someone asks, I’ve often used the metaphor of pots on a stove to explain how I function. My mind is a stove top with five or six burners. I am constantly tending to several pots—projects—at various stages of heat. Some are simmering, waiting their turn. Others are on full boil and need immediate attention. None are cold and stagnant. And there are always pots and heat and tremendous amounts of energy being expended to tend to them; the space is busy and loud. I’ve always written it off as “it’s just who I am; it’s how I am wired” and accepted that I will carry this Burden of the Boiling Basins to my grave.

But lately I have started to question that. More specifically, I have started questioning my motivation. Why do I pour so much energy into these self-inspired projects? Why do I tend to all these burning pots of ideas? Is attributing it to my “wiring” a legitimate excuse for all that striving? What have I gained? More importantly, what might I have missed while engaged in adjusting all those burners? Have I missed something great while striving for good (or worse, mediocre)? Is it possible to hear a different voice when all those personal pots are boiling? Maybe, just maybe, it is time to turn off a couple of burners and rest.

And wait.

And give God a chance to speak. Have I been expecting a shout above the din when He was always calling in a whisper?

One hand full of rest is better than two fists full of labor and striving after wind.
Ecclesiastes 4:6 (NASB)

Jaysephus’ Book of Common Prayers

So I sit here, stand here, drive here, wait here. I really don’t worry about the outcome while I wait but I do worry about me. Forgive me for wandering. Give me patience to wait another day (or five). And help me remember that there are millions out there dealing with more than I. My issues are minor in comparison. Big to me? Sure, but minor, none-the-less. Too many are dealing with survival, illness, hunger, hopelessness; I am dealing with none of those. Tilt my focus to them, not me. Give me oil in my lamp...

Memorable Memories

I have always been fascinated at the power of memory. The way a song, phrase, sound and even a smell can instantly transport us back to a previous emotional spot is amazing. Sometimes it is subtle, bringing a wry smile, but other times it is overwhelming, your face turns red, neck gets hot or tears well up. All from a memory. It’s a little weird as well as an incredible display of what our minds are capable of.

Yesterday I posted some old pictures on Facebook. I had been digging around through old photo albums and came across two scrapbooks I had put together during high school. On a whim I scanned a few pictures and put them up on my page. I then threw out a “just so you know” message on Twitter—which automatically updates my Facebook page (how very meta of me!)—and waited to see what the response would be. I was shocked. Before an hour was up, people had tagged nearly every person in the group shots and the comments were flooding my inbox. I reconnected with several people I had not “spoken” to in years, some never, since they were siblings of old friends, and was in the midst of a few mini conversations at once. The most memory jarring photo, by far, is the group shot of our performance choir, taken at the Buccaneer Festival in Corpus Christi, Texas, 1977. The choir director from then (whom I had recently been in contact with via Facebook, naturally) tagged nearly every person in the choir from memory and his recollections of our choir (which he shared via comments) started a wonderful traipse through our past with several people joining in. It has been fun as well as a fascinating.

This is “social media” in its purest and best form. No one selling anything. No one asking you to take a quiz. No one trying to convince you that having 10,000 followers makes you powerful. No, the power comes from memories and being able to reconnect those threads, digitally or otherwise. And now I have new memories on top of old.

NOTE: My choir director mentioned he has recordings of our choir that he is going to try and get digitized. He will then share them with us online. Another layer, another memory (and hopefully we are as good as we remembered!).