Why is “bra” singular but “pants” plural?
Why are top half clothes ALWAYS singular and bottom half clothes MOSTLY plural? Is there a logic to this?
Why is a grapefruit called a grapefruit when it doesn’t look, taste, or grow like a grape does?
Why is it called “menstration” when men don’t do it? They do PMS sometimes though… usually at feeding time, roaring like hungry lions from juicy red meat cooked in caveman fashion over an open flame.
Why is it that every time I teach my son or husband how to cook something, they add or subtract a few spices to it and then turn around and offer to teach me how to cook it as though they’d invented the recipe themselves? Oh, and they’re quite arrogant about it too.
How can my mother possibly manage to forget some things we experienced together in my childhood that were pure lightening to my own recollection, like the time we discovered a time capsule hidden between the thick walls of an old warehouse we were helping my grandparents to shape into an indoor swapmeet.
The time capsule contained the personal effects of cowboy romance writer Frank Richardson Pierce. My mother still has those items stored in her house and remembers finding them at the swapmeet, but not the fact that they were sealed in a thick wall she knocked through with a sledge hammer while I watched wide-eyed at the discovery of a hidden room full of interesting antique items set on tables in a careful, museum like display. This was just a month before the swapmeet burned to the ground in the middle of the night and the only items saved from it were those from the time capsule. How could she forget that?
Why do door-to-door evangelists think they’re going to win converts by telling people that they’re fools for coming to their own intelligent conclusions about reality and are, moreover, going to burn in hell for it for not changeing their minds…? This based, no less, on the assumption that their would be converts actually believe in their god, heaven, or hell in the first place.
Never assume anything. It makes an ass out of you and me.
Last night, my son gave me something else to ponder. Riding with me to store for a few small items, we picked up some steelhead at the Safeway and the girl who handed it to us recognized Andy from their highschool days so recently passed. They chatted a bit and were very friendly, but though she used his name, I noticed, he didn’t use hers. Later, in the car, he told me he didn’t remember her name but she’d been a member of the group of kids he’d hung out with in high school.
He told me how the group had grown and then shrank as different ones graduated, dropped out, moved away, or even died. Well, one death anyway. The girl had experiemented with drugs and alchohol just once and it had been the death of her when, plastered out of her mind, she thought to jump across the highway only to be hit by several cars in quick succession.
Some were more memerable than others, the most loveable among them, a funny black kid named Cornell, first among them to graduate, who probably went right on to become a successful stand-up comedian. I’ve seen videos of him. He was non-stop hilarious but never crude. Another one was a pretty blond girl that was Andy’s girlfriend for a very short time because nice as she was he always had the feeling that she was hiding a large part of herself from him. He knew what that was when finally she left him for another girl. Others went on to jobs or early marriage. Some have kids now. He runs into them now and then but is no longer in touch. They chat when they meet and then go on their separate ways.
It’s not like when they were in high school together. Andy misses that and doesn’t now how it could ever have fallen apart so quickly. He asked me if I’d ever had friends like them in high school. I told him I had, that we used to have parties, hike together, camp together, picnic together, and even ran a little literary magazine together… that we knew each other so well we were psyically linked and send clear telepathic messages to one another even when nowhere in sight of each other. “I miss having friends like that,” I told him.
“How did you ever lose touch with them?” he asked.
“Ah well, first I went to Iran for a year and we still wrote one another but in the days before email, it took snail mail a very long time to travel between here and the Middle East – months sometimes – and, maybe because I was grappling with culture shock, trauma of various sorts, and an almost crippling sense of isolation, we lost our telepathic link. I found them again when I came back, but lost touch again when I joined the Army and was stationed in Germany for the next three years. Since then, I’ve been unable to find them. I’ve looked for them online too, but no sign of them and the girls, at least, have probably married and changed their names.”
I’m still hoping to find them again. Here’s a picture of some of us together at the Everett Mall in 1979 when we’d dressed up in old west style and posed together for an old fashioned portrait:
Names of faces left to right back: Kateri (last name?), Al (last name? but later husband of Kateri), Judy Malloy (nick name Lanea), Kathy Kilgore. I don’t recall the little girl’s name. She wasn’t really part of the group. I think she was Judy’s little sister. I’m the one seated in front. Dean Hackworth (nickname Garth), Chris (last name? Nick name Talu), Timothy (last name? but later husband of Judy), and Julia Hale (nick name Nikema) are missing from this picture. Do you know any of us? I hope one of them at least happens upon my site. Is it too much to hope for?
I wonder what they’re doing with their lives these days?