RIP Farrah Fawcett

I am oddly saddened by the news that Farrah Fawcett has died. She was an icon of my era, my formative years. I even had the Farrah doll, replete with 70s jumpsuit. She embodied what I'd so hoped to grow up to be. My 10-year old self willed just a glint of the glamour and confidence and beauty she owned. And let's be honest, she owned it. Farrah was my fantasy glamour girl. She was my "It" girl before I ever knew such a thing existed. How I coveted her feathered locks. I was the only kid in middle school who didn't have her hairstyle. My mom called it a "Wingback Wanda" and thought it was too tacky to grace the hair of her geeky little petite Indian daughter. I did, however, carry a plastic handled comb in the back pocket of my Gloria Vanderbilt jeans so I could at least look the part. I so wanted to flip back my feathered mane like the cool girls did who wore Candies shoes and Calvin Kleins. Farrah was a bombshell icon of the feminist ideal to this impressionable, shy, insecure girl who thought she'd never have the guts to lift her chin to face the world.

Peace, Farrah.

Interrogation

I spend a lot of time with my sons. I'm a chatty one so we talk. I figure I've got a captive audience until they're at least eight so I babble and ponder and regale. Plus both boys are chatty, so we all fight for air time. We are in the car running to and fro an awful lot. And when we're not staging a singalong to Hit Me With Your Best Shot, Hawaiian Roller Coaster Ride, Robot Parade, Shake Your Booty, or anything by Barry White, we are chatting. Mostly I tell them stories, real tales or fabrications of what strike me as better antidotes to the truth.

And there are the questions. Geesh, the constant questions that boggle my mind, wrench my gut, tickle my funny bone, squash or propel my inner cynic, depending on the inquiry. The questions range from the deep to the absurd and back 'round again.

And it all starts with, "Hey, Mommy?"

There's the God/Jesus/Bible line of questioning:
Whom did you talk about school, Jesus or God?
Is God the same as Jesus?
How old is God?
Was God poor?
Where does God live?
How old is Jesus?
Why does the Lord want to take us away and keep us?
Why don't we have a Bible? Why don't we read it before bed?
Did those gods really have all those arms and blue skin? (a nod to the Indian folktales we read)
Who hears our prayers? Is someone listening?
Who are the angels?

And the baby questions that offer no easy way out:
How does the baby get out of your belly?
How did the baby get in your belly?
How does the baby know when to come out?
What does the baby eat?
Where does the baby poop?
Do daddies have babies?
Did you know that we start out the size of a sprinkle? (my personal favorite quip)

Biology, the body, and the like:
Why is Daddy hairy? (not on the back, mind you, for that's a deal breaker)
Do you really have eyes in the back of your head?
Why does your belly touch your belt buckle when you sit down? (badge of motherhood, I say)
Why do we have a belly button? Can it do anything?
Babies drink milk from there?! (guffawing ensues)

And the random deep thoughts, Jack Handey style:
Will our next pet die?
Who's the oldest person on earth? (for a while the boys' debate was between my dad and my brother until I squashed that)
When will I die?
Who invented seeds?
What was the first seed? (Adam's?)
What language would people speak if everyone from around the world met?
How long ago was "back in the day?"
You mean we don't just take some meat and sew up the cow?
Do we kill animals when we eat them or are they killed before they're on our plate?
Why does hair grow crooked? (perhaps because it's cut that way to begin with)


I entertain Mac Daddy every night with tales from the car. We lie in bed cracking up, feeling the oozing warmth of love and pride and amazement that the mantle of parenthood carries. For some reason Bird and Deal don't pepper Mac Daddy with such questions. I guess they realize that Daddy is the fun, wrestling, Super Hero, magic epee wielding playmate, while I am the erudite omniscient one. Or they're simply trying to get me to stop singing Can't get Enough of Your Love off key.

Order and Chaos and a Little Girl Named Maddie

First, forgive me for my inarticulate yammer today. I am struggling with words, for they are all so inadequate to express the roaring going on in my heart. Read on and try to get past the rambling. This is clearly not my best work, but I had to get it out. I warn you that I say nothing profound or comforting or meaningful. But please, read on. Coaxing out words and coherent thoughts when your mind is empty and exploding at once is not an easy task. But here goes...

To go against nature and disrupt order results in chaos, no? To shirk the natural order of things is to play chicken with the universe, tempting the Fates. Order is fundamental to our existence, Chaos its unwelcome disruptive cousin. And so it is a mystery, a painful, heartless mystery, when a parent must bury a child. The natural order of things turned upside down.

And so it is for Heather and Mike Spohr, who lost 17-month old Maddie last week. Their baby girl.

I don't know the Spohrs but I know their story, and that is enough. More than enough. Our paths cross in the blogosphere and on Twitter. The funny thing about this sorority of so-called "mommy bloggers" is that we do indeed feel like we are friends. We share more intimate thoughts and tales online that we do in passing coversation with our friends in real life (IRL, as we say). We laugh at the zany antics of our children, boost each other up when we admit our shortcomings, applaud our families' milestones, and mobilize when someone is hurting. If you simply google "Maddie" or "Maddie Spohr" you'll see the amazing words and prayers and love that the blogging community has poured out. You'll see how these virtual friends from all across America rallied to walk for the March of Dimes in Maddie's name. You'll see how Heather's March of Dimes donations on her blog went from $3000 to $20,000 in a blink. We are kindred spirits.

And so I look at my sons with an even greater love. I hug them a little longer. I smother them with wet kisses. I find myself reaching out to simply touch their hand or whisk away a tendril of overgrown hair from their eyes. I get to do that. I get to touch them and hear their boisterous guffaws and giggles. I get to smell their warmth. I get feel their hands slide into mine, their eyelashes brush my cheek. I get to nuzzle them and kiss them good night. I won't take it for granted. This I promise myself.


Note:
Maddie's memorial service is at 2:30pm on Tuesday, April 14th, 2009. It will be held at the Old North Chapel at Forest Lawn Memorial Park, Hollywood Hills, CA. Everyone is asked to wear purple in honor of Maddie. Even if you can't make it to LA, wear purple in a show of support for the Spohrs and as a reminder of how precious our children are.

A Mother's Passing

The following is one of the first posts I wrote when I started Dirt & Noise this year. I've reposted it in its entirety. I began to write in hopes that my blog would be a tool to make the world a better place. My idealism manifested.

I am saddened and humbled and astonished to write tonight that Shannon Dodd, mother, wife, spark plug, faithful friend, and so much more, passed away last night. Her two boys are the same age as my Bird and Deal. Mac Daddy had tears in his eyes and asked, "How do you begin to explain this to children?" My heart is heavy, my eyes are watery, my soul is sad. Regardless what you believe, say a prayer for Shannon's family. And hug yours extra tight.


I don't know Shannon Dodd, yet I feel a certain kinship to her. She, like me, is in her 30s (not as FAR into her 30s as I am, mind you). She has two boys, so her house is full of dirt and noise too. Shannon has a lovely monosyllabic-named husband. She has an extraordinary close-knit group of friends. Our similarities end there. You see, Shannon is in the heat of the battle of a lifetime; she is fighting an aggressive brain cancer. Her noggin, her VERY BEING is being attacked by these horrid, cancerous cells.

Shannon and her family are fighting. They are in the ring for those two little boys, ages 4 and 5. And they are fighting for so much more. I was teary-eyed recounting the tale to my husband tonight. I can only manage to be but so poignant, if at all, in this post. My emotions are raw for this woman I don't even know. I know her story, however, and that's moving enough.

How do I even know of Shannon's plight, you ask? My boys are in school with some of Shannon's friends who are in the ring with her. They are busy at various command posts organizing a whole host of ways to support the Dodd family. For starters, there's a pancake breakfast fundraiser on Saturday, January 26 8:00-10:30 to raise money to help the Dodds manage mounting financial burdens. Though they are blessed with great health insurance, the bills still add up quickly. The emotional toll can't be empirically counted. Imagine the havoc illness wreaks on those less fortunate. No political jabs here, but simply an observation.

If you're in or around Raleigh, enjoy the respite from breakfast duty on the 26th and head over to 4801 Six Forks Road for pancakes, sausage, coffee, and juice. Tickets are a mere 5 bucks. Go to shannondodd.org to get more information. You can see photos of the lovely Shannon there too. And by the way, the $5 donation is not tax deductible since Shannon's friends are the organizers, not a registered, official non-profit. But hey, who's supporting the cause for the tax break? As a good liberal, I hate people who just write checks for the tax write off and not the underlying cause anyway.

Shannon has a remarkable group of friends. It's easy to call, email, drop by with a half-burned lasagna once in a while. Creating a whole grassroots campaign is another endeavor. What a gesture it is for these friends to show their love in a tangible way. I'm sure the lasagna, once the burned cheese was scraped off the top, was enjoyed by all, but nothing beats the display of friendship behind the scenes at http://www.shannondodd.org/.

In a world fraught with war, worry, and wariness, it is refreshing to know that everyday people live with a whole different set of virtues. Love, generosity, goodwill, and true, deep care are dancing in harmony before my very eyes. We should all be so lucky to live a life worthy of such a solid set of friends, admirers, and supporters. Friendship, unlike any I have experienced, is alive and kicking here in Raleigh. Shannon's cancer is in for a real ass kicking.

Join the fight.

Saturday, January 26
8:00 - 10:30
5 bucks (priceless since you don't have to cook!)
St. Mark's Methodist Church, 4801 Six Forks Road, Raleigh

Pssst. Pass it on.

Today I Learned of Suicide

I found out some heartbreaking news today from a long lost friend (praise Facebook for the reunion!). Our old friend Randy committed suicide.

It happened in 1995. I had no idea.

I left my hometown almost 20 years ago and have been back only twice in recent years. Not because I don't love it, I simply have no family there anymore. I still consider it "home." My so called formative years were spent there. I fondly recall our close circle of friends.

We were a mixed bag of kids who came from various cliques and backgrounds. A common sense of folly and intellect brought us together. We were smart (though not geekily so), athletic (though not in that annoying jock way...and for the record, I was not one of the athletic ones), and ambitious (college was a shared goal and expected milestone). We used to go swimming, have parties, devour movies, eat doughnuts, and dance. We laughed until our bellies ached (doughnuts being a contributing factor) and shed tears over the maelstrom of life's uncertainties and curveballs that come our way in our teens.

Randy was the most earnest and thoughtful of the gang, keeping a watchful eye on me since he was a few years my senior. His smile was grand and popped whatever funk bubble enveloped you. He was often the voice of reason among the rowdy grain alcohol experimenters and skirt chasers. His spirit was kind, mature, charming, and sensitive. And don't think for a minute that there wasn't a healthy dollop of mischief tossed in.

I've been out of touch with those old friends for decades now. Once in a while I catch myself grinning over a fleeting memory from back in the day. Back in the day when friends sat around til the wee hours talking about our futures, how unfair our parents were, the cities we wanted to visit, who was breaking our hearts, and where to go on the next beer run with a fake ID. Back in the day when friendship came with no obligations, judgments, or competition. Back in the day when we were young and foolish. Back in the day when we had not tasted our own mortality and no idea that we were anything but invincible.

Randy went on to teach high school history, he was a captain in the Army National Guard, and a volunteer at crisis counselor centers in town. On paper and in life he was accomplished and
admired. He would blush and say something self-deprecating if he read this.

I am deeply saddened for the loss of an old friend, even a friend with whom I had lost touch. My heart physically hurts from the news. I am not writing to seek answers, point fingers, or uncover regrets. I simply want to remember a friend who touched me.

Good Riddance, Jesse Helms

I am not from North Carolina, though I've lived here for over six years now and have no intention of leaving any time soon (only because Madison, WI is too freaking cold!). It is home, and I have a lovely, happy life here. When asked where I'm from, I always answer Virginia (with a qualifier that I live in North Carolina). It's where I grew up after all. And let's be honest, once a Virginian, always a Virginian. My friend Will gives me grief about not claiming NC as my home state. He wonders how long I must live here for North Carolina to qualify as my answer when the knitting chick next me to on a plane asks me where I'm from.

At this rate, never. I'm a bit miffed at my state right now. They just laid Jesse Helms to rest this week. Good riddance. Mac Daddy and I saw him at a local restaurant when we first moved here. When Mac Daddy saw him, he muttered under his breath, "I'd like to knock that walker out from under him." Apparently his mutter was more of a snort, so lots of people looked our way. Only a couple folks smiled sheepishly in agreement, expressing their solidarity more with their eyes than their words. Ripping on "Uncle Jesse," as our conservative neighbor calls him, was clearly against the rules in our new state.

I remember growing up in Virginia hearing about the racist vitriol that spewed from his lips. I remember my parents shaking their heads, thinking damn, I'm glad we don't live there. My nanny, a black woman with grown children and four grandchildren, has lived in North Carolina for decades and had to experience Helms' racism firsthand. A local newspaper columnist summed up what the Helms way would have meant to the black people of North Carolina. This is a man who was a vocal segregationist, openly discriminated against AIDS victims by opposing federal research and treatment dollars (PSHAW to his later regret...too little too late, my friend), and was opposed to instituting Martin Luther King Day. Social conservatism, ha! That's putting it mildly. This is a man who referred to our state's flagship university as the University of Negroes and Communists (UNC)!

Jesse Helms was a divisive man. His first bid for the Senate centered on a separationist philosophy: "He's one of us!" barked his slogan in response to his Greek-American opponent. Remember Ryan White? The kid who contracted AIDS at age 13 and subsequently died? Helms refused to speak to Ryan's mother when she went to the Hill to speak to representatives about AIDS research funding. Know what he said about the horrific disease? "There is not one single case of AIDS in this country that cannot be traced in origin to sodomy." Oh, it gets better. Know what he did to Carol Moseley-Braun in the elevator? He whistled Dixie. Yup, sure did.

You gagging yet?

Simply put, Jesse Helms was not a good man. I don't care how affable or gentlemanly you perceived him to be. A tip of the hat and a hidy-ho with an offer of a glass of sweet tea to passers by do not a gentleman make. Does a truly friendly, good natured man wish for the demise of an entire race? Good people do good deeds and inspire goodness. Helms fueled a racism and xenophobia so deep and hateful that it is still palpable today. Is this goodness? Are these the kinds of values you want your children to live by and pass on? I am sick that North Carolinians voted for this man for so long. I am sick that in death, North Carolina revered him.

No flag should have been flown at half staff if you ask me. Just because a man is dead doesn't mean it is time to celebrate his life. Grace does not befall the fallen if it was not due in life. Helms lived his life trying to suppress the rights of others; his was not a life lived by the decree of respect for all. So tell me, Governor Easley, why should we bestow respect on this man by flying flags at half staff? He was not worthy.

You can imagine my outrage at this.

I want Mr. Eason to run for office. If more people lived by their convictions as he did, we might be a better place. Sounds like the spirit of Paul Wellstone to me. Man, would he have been a refreshing jolt to the red blood running through the veins of North Carolina. Now let's think about something, police officers accidentally shoot and kill people and get a temporary desk job until the proverbial dust settles. Eason refused to lower the flag for Jesse Helms and is fired...oh, I mean forced into "retirement." Just or unjust?

Here's a comment from a local blog that a delusional Kristy left. It's almost laughable to me that people actually believe this crap. Last I recall from my history class days with Ms. Malone (and I majored in history in college), the nation was not knit together by God and the bible. Um, separation of church and state ring a bell, Kristy? Oh, you were probably homeschooled so you missed that chapter. I guess you don't know who Darwin and Martin Luther King Jr. are either. For starters, Kristy, your message would be more tolerable with some proper grammar and a comma or two. Punctuation simply can't be overlooked, my dear. If you're going to spew a load of crap, you might as well do it correctly.

1. "What a great Senator Jesse Helms was. To have never lost a political race is quite an accomplishment. I hope those who have opposed him realize that those who voted him into office are walking along side you even now and are continuing to vote for the values Senator Helms upheld. Knowing this state put him into Senate for as long as they did is only one of the many reasons I am proud to be from North Carolina. If you saw him in a negative light I implore you to look beyond secondhand information and read first hand his voting record (which is public information for those of us who like to make up our own mind about things rather than having our opinions handed to us by a third party). He believed every person was created equal in the eyes of God and voted to protect each one of this states citizens, even those who hated him. As for moral issues, if you disagreed with Jesse Helms and oh so many other more conservative thinkers please don’t take it out on us because sadly we can’t take credit for the ideals we try to uphold but rather look to God and the Bible from which the nation was knitted together. That is definitely who your disagreement is with."

   By kristy on Jul 10, 2008

In the South it would be perfectly appropriate to recount Kristy's story and end with a, "Bless her heart." Translation: "That Kristy is an idiot who refuses to take off her blinders. What a shame we have to deal with her."