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

The Other Side of the World

Shakespeare penned the immortal words: "The course of true love never did run smooth."

I've reinterpreted their meaning over many years and through many relationships, and after all the heartache and heartbreak, dating, loving and marriage, all I can come up with is this:

No love story is normal.

I've mentioned before that B. and I have an unusual story.  We didn't meet in college. We didn't meet in school at all. Not at a bar or a party or even over facebook.  We weren't set up by friends. We met in a Bulgarian village called Stara Zagora.

She had landed only hours before and was still loopy and jet-lagged out of her mind.  At the time I had a haircut you normally don't see outside of 3rd grade class pictures from 1986.  It was summer, and the A/C wasn't great in the meetinghouse where we met to introduce ourselves.  We were both sweaty, greasy and exhausted.

No.  It was not love at first sight.

I think there's a primal part of your brain that gets activated once you reach the age where people get married.  That biological impulse that says, "I'm single and I'm looking to remedy that." - even if only subconsciously.  Anytime I met a pretty girl, that little part would activate in my brain and start analyzing her features, playing a short film in my brain featuring our future together. Funny how our minds keep themselves amused.

Well, I shook my sweet B.'s hand, completely ignorant of the new chapter in my life that had just begun.  I did my primal scan, sat back and enjoyed the feature, and continued getting to know her briefly before she left to get settled in her apartment and recover from her long flight. I found out later that she had a similar film festival going on in her brain.  Particularly when she heard my surname for the first time.  As she shook my hand, she groggily wondered, "Bugg?  Oh man, what if I marry him?"  I found out that little chestnut later on.

I should break here to mention that we were not in Bulgaria as some sort of bizarre, extreme off-site dating service.  We were volunteering as missionaries.  We set aside 18-24 months to humanitarian work, education, and religious proselytizing. It's a strict lifestyle that you enter into voluntarily, to focus only on the people you serve.  Boys room with boys, girls with girls in separate apartments in different parts of town.  You don't date.  You don't do anything for yourself.  The time you spend there is for the Bulgarian people, not you.  You learn the language and try to help people better their lives.

Not exactly fertile ground for love to blossom.  And it didn't at first.  But as I said, there is that primal part of your brain, constantly running that mating-match-up-meter, mission or no.

She slept a lot the first few weeks, crashing whenever she could.  But in her pockets of wakefulness, we developed a witty repartee. We got to know each other gradually, and eventually became very good friends.  We found we both share an enthusiastic adoration for a number of Michael Jackson songs, among other things.  But the admiration didn't really progress further than that whilst in Stara Zagora.

We kept tabs on each other after we left for separate assignments in other cities, and the rest, as they say, is history. But I will always remember that quiet village in the hills of Eastern Europe. I was meant to be there, just as she was meant to come there.  And we were meant to grow upon each other slowly in unusual circumstances.  Our love story would make a lousy romantic comedy.  But aren't there enough of those anyway?  Who wants normal?  Life can come up with something much more interesting and certainly less formulaic.

Call it fate, call it chaos theory, call it what you will, but I know I had to meet my sweetheart on the other side of the world.  Don't rail against life for forcing you down a path you don't know or approve of.  You don't know what's awaiting you at the next turn.


S

Late to Life

I had a job interview yesterday.  This is my last "college summer."  The last time I have to scramble for summer employment before impending fall classes engulf my time wholesale.  This time next year I'll be graduating and flying top speed into the workforce.  But now, as my graduation date approaches ever... so... slowly... I feel kind of stuck.

Truth is, I got a late start on life.

I graduated from high school younger than most - a respectable 17 years old, with plenty of opportunity to get a head start in college.  However, I had made other plans. As is common practice in my faith, I chose to devote two years of my life to preach, teach, and volunteer in an assigned location.  I'll write more about my experiences volunteering as a missionary in another post, but suffice it to say, my two years abroad, combined with the year and a half I took to save for my mission (yes, we pay our own way whenever possible) essentially destroyed any semblance of a head start.

Most of my peers in my graduating class of 2007 were finishing college when I was registering for my freshman year.  I try not to make comparisons, every life takes a different path.  But it's difficult not to feel behind somehow.

My interview didn't help.  This was a nice place offering a great job.  I pray I land the position, I would love to work there and it would give me tons of career-applicable experience.  Plus, it feels like a job.  I walked into the office building, greeted by the brooding stare of a burly security guard and the dazzlingly hygienic smile of a pleasant, blonde receptionist. A welcome equal parts intimidating and inviting, I was already overwhelmed.  The cavernous lobby lined with plasma screens and crisply printed promotional materials didn't help to quell my nerves either.

All the glass-paned, polished ambiance of professionalism brought those gnawing doubts hurtling back to me.  I was supposed to get a head start, I graduated young!  I could be 3 years into a career now instead of juggling part-time jobs (no one offers full-time if they can avoid giving health insurance benefits). I could have a bachelor's, an MBA, and be starting my own business instead of fenagling my class schedule so that I don't overwhelm myself again with 18 credits a semester.  I could be climbing the corporate ladder and watching my financial portfolio diversify rather than blindly searching for professors' soft spots and catering my design portfolio to their tastes.  I could move on from the "school game" and finally get my hands dirty.

Here, in the opulence of this lobby, was a taste of the life I was missing out on.  This was where I could have been 3 years ago, a successful, industrious provider. Someone my wife could rely on to cover expenses while she prepares for grad school.  Someone to alleviate pressure from her end and allow her to focus entirely on her studies. The key to happiness.  The solution.  The life of professional ambition, of career planning, of weekends and summer trips and Saturdays spent with my wife instead of my homework.

But I shouldn't regret my choice to volunteer.  I met wonderful people, saw foreign lands, learned a strange language, and expanded my horizons in ways college couldn't accomplish (and hasn't). Perhaps most importantly, I met my wife there, on the other side of the world.  It was a wonderful, enriching experience and I wouldn't trade it for the world, let alone a head start in the job market.

The coulds and insteads and rathers of life can drown you in a flood of woulda-coulda-shoulda.  The fact is, that life, the life you're missing out on, the life you pine after - it will always be there.  It's ambition's great mirage.

Timing has nothing to do with it.  Education and career happen in their own time, at their own pace.  I know a man who is a successful provider, husband and father who never went to college.  I have a friend who's been all over the world doing volunteer work after graduating from college; he's home and currently works at Starbucks.  Another friend of mine graduated the same year I did and is still taking writing classes as he prepares to compose what I fully expect will be the great American novel. Some end up in the CEO's chair. Others choose to stay home with the kids (and not just the mothers; stay-at-home dads are out there working hard, too).  Regardless of what your life's timeline is, I think as long as your moving forward, you're on the right track.

Maybe I'm not late after all.  I just took the scenic route.


S