Wednesday, February 1, 2006

the very bestest stuff. Because I figure there are worse things to discuss. The oils that mist from the rind of a freshly-peeled lemon. Dancing past midnight. The right joke at the right time. Grandma-sewn quilts. Hardwood floors. Sunday papers. Fiery peppers. Kept promises. Hearing the best song again and again. Believing in change. Lemon verbena. First steps. Tonic water. Sleepy breathing. Truth. Austin City Limits. Effective filing systems. Sour keys. Orange juice, not from concentrate. Snow days. Silky sand between my fingers. Drives along the coastline. Toe shoes. Ice cream, straight from the carton. Orchestras tuning. The correct use of the semi-colon. The pale stroke of azure watercolour paint across the canvas. Remembering a random piece of trivia, two weeks later. Sipping rich, dark coffee far too early in the morning. Stephane Grappelli's gentle violin. A perfectly ridiculous haiku. Fresh cherries. Happy tears. Whispery late-night phone conversations. Hitting the high note -- not halfway, but perfectly. Cocoa butter. Dreams of flying. The good kind of wondering. Pajama pants. First editions. Gag reels. The swirly stomach feeling felt on a good rollercoaster. The smooth weave of white cotton sheets, fresh from the line. Being hoarse from laughter.Georgian drawls. Oscar Wilde quotes. Sincere proposals. Late night talk shows. The sweet slick of maple syrup across a fresh pancake. The smell of a freshly-peeled, sunwarm peach. Gospel choirs singing to whitewashed ceilings. The sight of coats stacked in my bedroom while a party glows in the living room. The sound of chickadees singing at winter dawn. Glancing across rooms. Black fountain pens. The contrast of buttery caramel against tart apple, and the smell of the pine-y stick. Real chicken stock, simmering in the pot. Triple Word scores. Holding hands. Clean bathtubs. Cold slices of raw salmon, with just enough wasabi. Yahtzee. Independence. Sails full of wind. Summer cloudbursts. Unread books, spines uncracked. Garlicky potatoes, wrapped in foil, crackling on the grill. Gentle airport welcomes. Capascium in my lip gloss. A job well done. Grapefruit sections. Christmas pageants. My dad's tears of pride. The squeak of guitar strings. White t-shirts. Star-spinning under a clear night sky. Unaffected voices. Good olive oil. Honour. Pashmina. Toes in the sand. The awkwardness of old writing re-found. The smooth surface of weather-battered logs. The sound of my mother's laugh. Believing. Watching football with my dad. The soft chill of puppy nose on my hand. Fresh, fleecy sweatshirt insides. Bernaise sauce, fresh on asparagus. Clouds resting on the mountains. Worn-soft jeans. Magazine shops. Mountain creeks, glimmering with smooth stones and ice-melted water. Vanilla perfume in the crook of my neck. The smell of freshly-fallen snow. Magenta-coral sunrises. The sound of waves crashing at a distance. Long johns. Coronation grapes. The smell of Jiffy markers. Kelly-green moss. Golf umbrellas. Orange blossom ironing water. Cucumber candles. Olympic hockey goals. Knowing all the words. My grandfather's crazy laugh. Pomegranate seeds. The amazing power of Windex. Ice-cold skim milk, straight from the fridge. The feeling of taking high heels off. Baby fingers. Unexpected praise. Cranberries popping as they cook. Being able to say you were wrong. Rich, passionate soul music. Prairie sunsets. Peppermint tea. Strong hands on the small of my back. Vicks Vap-O-Rub. Small galleries. Baby lotion. Frost-clicking eyelashes. Freshly-grated reggiano. Sunlight on the water. Cousin Norma's old autograph book. Fresh biscuits with cold butter. Hot showers. Goldfish lips, bubbling into a wide-eyed "O." Floating face down with a snorkel, the sun warming my back. Fresh rosemary, rubbed between my fingers. Unabashed delight. Wacky typos. Corn on the cob. Shade from tall trees. A solo cello. Campfires. Lists. An armful of toddler. Being casual. Twirly skirts. Mosquitoless tents. Cats curled into a "c." Muscles tired from working. Blueberry muffins. True love. Sleeping in. Ball rooms -- the ones actually filled with primary-coloured balls. Old men who wink. Knowing the right thing and doing it. Rest. Peace to all. 11:48:16 PM    well, yes, but...  [] yeah. I just wanted to say the following: If you pray, pray for Ruth, Rowland, Emily, Marie, Jamie, and Loni -- for comfort, healing, and peace. It's important. And pass it onto your friends. Thanks, guys. 6:33:46 PM    well, yes, but...  [] six questions. Why did you get out of bed this morning? What was your first thought? What were the first five things you did? If you could choose anything to do with your day, what would it be? If you could choose anything to be today, what would you be? What did you do today for someone else? 7:05:21 AM    well, yes, but...  [] 25 cents Quarters were like gold in Seaside. I remember my dad exchanging whole twenty-dollar bills to get us pocketfuls of jangling coins. We'd plug them into games and prize machines and photo booths and the Whack-a-Mole and the Prize Crane... pretty much anything with flashing lights and a slot. Ten dollars worth of quarters feels like the world when you're eight, and to have it all, right there in my hands? Bliss. My brother would race off to play the toughest games -- the ones with guns and steering wheels and joysticks and crazy, creepy voices issuing weird commands -- while I would stand amazed at my bounty, unsure that I even wanted to spend it. Granted, I'd earned it, so it was mine to do with as I pleased -- which is exactly why it was so hard to let all that treasure go As soon as my brother had grown old enough to babysit me, my parents had placed a notebook in the cupboard in the kitchen. Each week, they'd tally the hours he'd spent watching me when they were out along with the hours I'd spent behaving for him. When we'd head off to the Oregon Coast on vacation for a week in the summertime, my parents would pay out the sum of those numbers in fun money to spend on whatever we wanted. After Bruce's Candy Kitchen (salt water taffy, sour apple candy sticks, lemon drops, seafoam, and caramels) and the quirky stores in Cannon Beach (beaded necklaces and stuffed whales and t-shirts with Haystack Rock emblazoned on the front), the Seaside arcades were always a favourite spot to blow a few bucks. My parents would wander the short streets nearby looking at things that made us fidgety while we ran around those blinking, beeping, clanging, dirty-rugged, wood-paneled, game-filled rooms until we were rosy-cheeked with the magic of it all. And every single year, I would hop into one of the dollar photo booths to take a set of four goofy pictures for my mom and dad. I'm not sure they even wanted them, but those overexposed and silly grins were my way of saying thank you for the memories they were giving us, hour by hour, day by day. Life wouldn't always be so simple, so easy to comprehend. But in those pictures, I'd be free forever, caught in blurry, colourful, toothy relief. Back then, we got money for doing the right thing and we received it at the right time. We poured it into the things that made us happy until we ran out. Then, when it was gone, we were content to go home. And -- the very best part -- even if there wasn't a single quarter left in our pockets at the end of the day, we never went without a single thing. Imagine that. I still have some of those photo strips, sun-faded and dust-scratched from moves and boxes and being used as bookmarks in various Norton Anthologies and Wheelock's Latin Grammar. My favourite set is one where my dad had joined me to mug for the timed flashes, my pigtails swinging back to knock his glasses down his nose. We look like kids, both of us. Kids with a pocketful of quarters and Tootsie Pop smiles and a world of flashing lights and possibilities only feet away. We'd earned that money, and it was ours to spend. Just like the memories I've earned now. Memories I spend on the very best dreams. 12:14:04 AM    well, yes, but...  []

© Copyright 2006 Meg Fowler. Last update: 3/4/06; 2:32:06 PM.