Tunes

Sunday I slept in.

I didn't mean to or want to, but I slept in far past my alarm or any hope of making it to church.  I felt silly but I also knew nothing could be done about it, so I rolled over, finished the last 10 pages of The Narrative of Frederick Douglass and quietly slipped out of bed.  B. can sleep in like it's an Olympic sport, but I have too restless a spirit.  Church was nearly over; I saw no sense in waking her up simply because I needed to stretch my legs.

I got up, tidied, and did some left over dishes.  Then I pulled down a box of what have become a traditional Sunday staple for us: Lehi Roller Mills Blueberry Muffins.  They're delicious, and we get a kick out of the logo on the box: the Mill in Lehi, UT where Kevin Bacon gymnastically punch-danced out his rage in the 1984 classic Footloose.

I baked the muffins, poured fresh-cut strawberries and blueberries into a bowl, placed said bowl and muffins on a plate and brought them in to my sweet B.  Her head rolled over on her pillow.  She smiled blearily, snatched a muffin and swallowed the whole thing in two bites.  There are few better ways to wake up than to a plate of fresh fruit and fresher muffins.

I tell you this not just to prove that I am getting the hang of this husband thing, but also because breakfast is not the point of this story.  While muffins baked, I did more than dishes to pass the time.  I put in a new CD that my wife spoiled me with the night previously.  Yes, a CD!  I'm old fashioned and I like the cover art, sue me.  The first track faded in, and the rest of my morning was bliss.

I'm no Kevin Bacon.

Certainly less angry (and agile) but just as enthused, I rocked out to my tunes as muffins baked.  I ambled around, pumping my fist and dancing like a fool in the empty living room, fingers slapping clumsily against the low ceiling as the song swelled around me.  No punch-dancing for me, thanks.

B. tolerates this group.  I love them.  I've loved their music since high school.  I would plug into my headphones and just chill for hours.  In my painting classes, theirs is always the music that focuses my creativity.  When they come on during my runs, I reach a higher mental plane, I am more than I usually am.  I'm centered, stoic, infallible.  I can listen to the lyrics of a ballad and wonder and puzzle over their ambiguities.  Or I can tune out the words and just let the notes wash over me like waves of ambient sound.  And when their faster songs play, I dance like a fool.  I find my true, undisturbed self when I listen to their music.

I think everyone has a group like that.  Everyone has a favorite band, favorite song, ballad, symphony, drum riff, guitar solo, something that makes your goosebumps get goosebumps; a musical moment that rocks you to your core and strikes a chord deep within you that you may not have known was there.  I've found mine.  And now, thanks to my loving B., I have another album to paint, run, and live to.

Thank you sweetie for putting up with my tunes.
What are yours? 


S

Good boy, Mama

Somewhere in a box stored away with all the other memories my family drags around from home to home as each new military assignment comes is a cassette tape.  In a world before vines, iPhones, Facebook and even the internet my parents kept their treasured moments in photo albums and cassette tapes.  On this tape you hear three voices speaking into the recorder.  The first is a squeaky toddler listing off animal sounds and Sesame Street characters.  His prepared statement is eagerly and cheerfully encouraged by a younger version of my father, the clear tenor of his voice yet unweathered by experience and hard-earned wisdom.  And then the last voice enters the scene.  It is higher than it is now, ringing like a soft bell.  There, frozen in that moment is the young girl, the new wife and newer mother with a bright naiveté that shines through the troubles that await her in the coming years.

There is my mother.

Every child has certain catchphrases that come about organically in their speech development.  My younger brother couldn't say my name correctly when he was small (mine has always been the hardest for kids to master).  Spencer, or even Spenc was shortened and endearingly captured as "Wemps," a name still tossed around teasingly today.

I was no exception.  When I wasn't quoting my beloved thespian muppets from the Barrio or reciting what animals made what noises I would spit out other more memorable gems.

I am the oldest child in my family.  I was raised and loved and nurtured in a boy's world.  When brothers came that didn't change much.  My sister wasn't even born until I was almost 9.  We grew up in a world where "boys will be boys."

"Atta boy"

"Oh, boy..."

"That's my boy."



Good boy.

For some reason that last one stuck early on.  And in a process similar to my brother's creation of "Wemps," I discovered a way to reciprocate praise to the owner of that bell-like voice of the tape recorder.

"Good boy, Mama!"

I didn't say it much, but the first time I did, she laughed and made sure to remember it forever.  And so I repeat, not to the memory captured on tape, but to today's Mom.  To the grown woman who raised not just me but five other children in a tight-knit family that has been tossed from house to house over the years.  To the caring, vibrant, beautiful woman who taught me how to be a good boy and a good man:

Good boy, Mama.

Well done.  I am constantly amazed at all that you do, all that you give, and all that you sacrifice for children who love you but don't always like you - who respect you but don't always show it.  Good boy, Mama.  You perform miracles everyday in an all too often thankless calling.  I love you.  We owe you everything.





Good boy to all Mamas.  And thanks for teaching us to be good boys.


Wemps

Dos Años

Yesterday was Cinco de Mayo. I'm not Mexican, nor is sweet B., but this day is a big deal to us.  Two years ago yesterday we got married.  And now, at long last we did Cinco de Mayo right. We went to Mexico.

I'm sitting in a gorgeous hotel in downtown Cancun typing away as muffled music wafts in through our balcony.  Children play in the schoolyard across the street and vendors shout at passersby in the plaza just down the road.  Ours is a small hotel tucked out of the way but still within walking distance of bus stops, small shops, taco carts and Wal-Mart.  B. is sleeping off her bad sunburns and I'm just sitting here, drinking in the otherness.

This trip has been a long time coming.  When we got married, we opted for a cheap honeymoon, staying in a mountain cabin some family lent to us for a week.  Last year we went to the zoo and the aviary and then invited as many friends as we could fit into our apartment to help us polish off the turkey B.'s work had given us the previous Christmas (we needed freezer space).  But this year we decided to finally take a real vacation, to leave the country and bake on a beach.

And bake we did.  Yesterday was fantastic. We slept in til 10, went shopping, had a delicious breakfast of empanadas and found a bus to the beach.  It was perfect.  Clear blue water, white sands, warm sun and cool breeze... paradise.  We laid down our beach towels and immediately took to body surfing.  I discovered it is one of my favorite things to do - ever.  B. took more breaks to tan and lounge in the sand.  I loved riding waves.  Eventually we both dozed in the sun. We walked to some nearby restaurants and splurged on our go-to celebratory meal: filet mignon.  Then we grabbed a cab back home, showered and scrubbed away the sand and surf before tucking in to bed and cuddling to George of the Jungle on Netflix.  Silly. Impulsive. A day only we could make.

The sun did a number on us both.  I ended up with some pretty raw red spots on my back and forehead.  Sweet B. woke up this morning to some mild blistering on her shoulders and rad tan lines on her front.  We slipped out this morning in search of aloe.  Once we obtained our ointment we came back and she's been sleeping it off since.

I'm not that tired, so I've been writing some emails, catching up on tumblr, facebook, and now updating here.  After this I'll read another chapter of the book I've been trying to finish for over a year.  I should probably be bored, but I'm enjoying the emptiness of our time here. We decided early on not to over-schedule this week.  We might go window shipping later this afternoon.  Tomorrow we might hop a bus to see some Mayan ruins.  Or we might hit the beach again.

Each day here is a gift to ourselves.  A little reward for all of our drudgery in school and at work.  This is the deep breath we need before diving back into the fray of B.'s grad school applications, my never-ending search for a job, an internship, a chance to get my foot in the door somewhere beyond campus, her summer classes (which start next week), our lost weekends and non-existent social lives. This is our last chance for sanity for the next five or so years.  This is our vacation.



Happy Anniversary, sweetheart.  I'll be here when you wake up.


S