Fail.

I have a terrible way of obliterating stories I try to re-tell.  I manage to suck the punch-line right out with awful inflection, over-excitement, and lack of patience.  I keep telling myself that I can take this situation in one of two directions: (1) Learn how to tell a good story or (2) get worse at telling stories, so that the failed attempt is funny in and of itself (ala Norm MacDonald).  Mid-tell I get too flustered to improve, so I always bomb...awwww, shucks!

I think I'll start posting examples, so I can share the pain.

The Outside

I grew up a really outdoorsy gal.  Fishing on rocky shores, camping the northeast, hiking the Appalachian Trail and the hills of Humphrey, hunting small game, picking flowers in sprawling fields, flipping rocks for bugs & crayfish, shooting arrows, building forts & treehouses, constructing the perfect fire pits, studying trees, learning how to survive in the woods on edible plants...You know, the typical girly stuff.  

As a 13 or 14-year-old I went on a nine-day hiking trip through the Allegheny mountains in Pennsylvania.  My companions were a funny group of five or six other young teens and a trail guide from the Dominican Republic.  Man, was that guy a regular yoga-posing MacGuyver! He would put that nature channel dude to shame.  Anyway, we carried all of our supplies with us: small tents, pots, pans, freeze dried food, a very limited amount of toilet paper and clothing, biodegradable peppermint soap for stream-bathing, etc.  No makeup on this trip.  No showers, either.  We slept on the ground, hiked as much as 20 miles per day with 60-pound packs, and drank river water we dosed with iodine for purification.  The trip changed me--noticeably--within only a few days.  On a very instinctual level, something entirely basic was satisfied when I proved to myself that I could survive in unfettered nature.  It was freeing, and as if gazing into a looking glass I was reminded of that freedom over and over again.  At the end of a long and difficult hike we got to dive into fresh, crisp streams.  After a long uphill struggle, we would peer over the rolling hills or scaled ravine and be amazed.  It was like being broken down and rebuilt a hundred different times, and finally, when all of the pieces were reassembled, I was different--in a good way.  In a great way.  It remains one of the best things I've ever done for myself. 

Pony Express

Letter-writing, one of life's forgotten pleasures, truly.  Something about handwritten efforts carry a deeper dignity.  Each individual character written for someone, in its own personal script.  Handwriting necessarily requires more thought, patience and focus.  In receiving a letter, you realize that 20, 30, 160 minutes have been spent for your few minutes of leafing through its pages.  The effort of author, alone, is touching.  But then, in addition to the obvious efforts, you can see the process of thought--words scribbled out, rewritten, sentences adjusted.  Isn't this the most unique part of a letter?  The hesitation, the re-evaluation?  And the payoff is lasting.  One can always pull out the letter for a browse.  Sometimes the best rewards come after a frustrating day when, while searching for something else, I happen upon a letter from an old pal or family member.  I have several people that I write to often.  Most often I write to my grandpa McKenna.  He tells me about the joys and struggles of raising 11 kids, working on the railroad, serving as a marine in the Korean War, and growing up in Hornell, NY.  He tells me about how I remind him of his father, my great grandfather McKenna, who was a small-town judge in Buffalo.  I find out about the state of his vegetable garden, his future fishing trips and about his bad back.  He writes to me about how sad it can be growing old, but also, how it's rewarding.  These letters are among my most valuable of possessions. 

My other favorite letter-writer has to be my ol' pen-pal, Ryan.  Back in my younger years, I met Ryan, who went to a rival high school.  Though we went to different schools, we shared the company of similar friends.  On some occasion, the circumstances of which I can't remember now, we shared our dismay over the emerging popularity of electronic mail.  "Whatever happened to the old pony express?", I'd probably said.  We exchanged old fashioned mailing addresses, and so it began.  We faithfully exchanged several letters a month--sometimes more, sometimes less, but without fail letters were exchanged over the period of several years.  Most letters were long, prompting even longer responses.  Looking back, they were of quite impressive lengths & efforts.  But what was so striking and interesting about our relationship was that our friendship existed in its true form almost exclusively through postal channels.  In person, it was hard to translate.  Our letters were very personal--inquisitive, revealing, they encapsulated hopes, dreams, fears, observations, likes, dislikes...But yet, in those times where we would meet in the flesh, we dried up.  How strange!  We knew each other so intimately, but could barely converse.  This has changed over time, but so has our writing.  We've stopped writing.  It's been several years since we've scrawled out messages to each other, in the old fashioned way at least.  Email has (sort of) won the current battle...But I'd like to think that our long letter-writing history won the goddamn war.  That history got me through most of high school without too terrible a teenage breakdown.  It was a therapy of sorts, that's for certain.  We absolutely wrote for ourselves as much as we wrote for each other. 

Old Things.

I really love old people.  I love their stories, their stubborn natures, the softening of their hearts once they've "seen it all."  It may take some patience, but I always learn some fascinating things from grannies and gramps.  I especially like asking about change--changes in the lay of the land, the pace of the City, the feeling of sitting on the front porch, etc. 

I guess I have a soft spot for a lot of old things. I'm obsessed by old photos.  Moments frozen in time on stiff photo paper, black & white, usually overly blown out--just enough to haunt me.  People never used to smile in old snapshots.  Instead, they stare.  They stare right through the lens, through decades of time, and meet my gaze.  There's nothing like that, like staring at old moments in time.  I can't get enough of it. 

Over this past Christmas, I found a box of old locks and keys in my parent's basement.  They once belonged to my great grandfather and were seemingly untouched for several decades.  The keys and locks were made of heavy metal--long shafts of iron or steel topped with old fashioned twists and designs, and arms of locks that clamp shut under their own weight.  Before I had realized it, I had spent over two hours fitting keys to locks, examining the symbols and words welded into each, and imagining what trash or treasures they once protected.  When I finally put the heavy box away, my hands had the smell of old metal, rust and steel, ancient dust and dirt.  It's the kind of smell that lets you know you've visited a different time.  The kind of smell I absolutely love.

A little something about my first few years.

Let's start from the beginning.  I was born in Buffalo, NY to a policeman and a nurse.  My dad grew up at the eldest of 11 kids, the reason why I have a huge extended family and a universe of first cousins.  My mom, by contrast, was the middle child of three--like me.

I loved growing up in Buffalo.  It's a city with endless potential, but it's in bad shape right now.  The people there are great, the architecture is incredible, and I'd hate to see it crumble in on itself.  Maybe one day I'll move back and use my lawyerly education to help turn it around...I would really, really love that. 

For the first 2-3 years of my life I lived with my grandparents in Eggertsville, NY, a suburb of Buffalo.  My older brother Patrick--13 months my senior--was born extremely premature (he was in the womb for only 4 months) and needed a kidney transplant.  The best place in the country for kidney procedures, at least in the 1980s, was Minneapolis, MN, so my parents and Pat moved there until he was healthy enough for the transplant. During that time I lived with my grandparents, who have been incredible pillars of support for me my entire life.  I was a really lucky little girl--my brother's body accepted the kidney my mother gave him, my family returned to me safe & healthy, and I was able to form a bond with my grandparents that most kids could never have.