Mr. Terrific

Mr. Terrific from Norma Jean Barrett on Vimeo.

The theme for this month’s terrific kid award was “justice”. Zach was praised by his teacher for his value of fairness and of equality.

Can you say future partner in my future law firm!

What a terrific kid.

Intersections

“I dated a guy from Belleville once,” said the new found friend from the other side of the sectional couch.

“Oh yeah?” I peaked up from my dull and dry evidence textbook, completely unprepared for the imminent collision of worlds and lives.

“Chris Wilson.”

“NO WAYYYYYYYYYY.” I squealed.  “No way no way no way … THAT is hilarious,” I said emphatically as the three of us giggled and laughed.

“I take it you know him,” says Bella the beautiful who had been otherwise neutral up to that point.

Bella and I had been friends for a few years.  From the moment I met her, I knew I wanted to be her friend.  I just knew I wanted to be around her.  She had big brown eyes and a nervous chuckle that made her warm and instantly likeable, and she spoke frankly and candidly without one iota of ego or rudeness.  She worked in a parallel department and our paths would cross every now and then, and each time I felt more and more like we’d always been friends despite the fact that we had spent very little time together.  It is as though our lives are a series of coincidences alongside a series of very controlled events.  I am no statistician, but if I were I would wager that Bella and I were bound to meet, and I suppose that meant that Grace, her lovely cousin and I were just as destined.  Even so, it is delightful that probability delivered on this prediction in just this way, because there really are not many things greater than a chance encounter with an instant friend.  

A few years ago, I began to dabble in online dating.  Prompted by a friend, I set up some profiles on a few different online dating sites.  I was, I can say now, an internet dating virgin and it would take more than a few rounds of experimentation to find my groove.  Back in the first base days, still nervous and insecure, I had a gross shortage in my catalogue of appropriate responses.  It was during this time that I had a brief and unfortunate exchange that resulted in being told that I might be too anal by a prospective suitor.  I had no idea if he was worthy of even a moment of precious daydream time - his profile was full of spelling mistakes and he had no photo.  He contacted me twice before deciding were were mismatched due to my anal-ness - both notes said the same thing, 

“Hey baby, wanna chat?”

“If you do, email me at chriswilson@hightempmail.com.”

Needless to say, I didn’t take him up on that offer.  I did, however, offer a generous and thorough critique of his profile, you know … because I wanted to help.  That’s me … helpful prospective dater … helpful insensitive insulting and apparently ANAL prospective dater.  I chose to delete him, block him, and to carry on despite my slightly bruised ego.

Much to my chagrin, the friend who encouraged me to take up the hobby of online dating met up with the anti-speller.  “Turns out he’s pretty cute,” she shared, “crappy kisser,” she mentions, “talks like a farmer,” she adds in, “and wow do I have a lot of bug-bites from our riverside make-out session,” was the punch line.  They dated about 10 minutes and then we laughed and giggled about the whole thing.  

At the end of Z’s first soccer season, I did not expect to have confirmation that the fellow parent I had nodded and exchanged the odd hello with was in fact the Chris Wilson that had called me out for being so particular about spelling.  I contemplated apologizing - I even went so far as to rehearse what I might say, both the comic version and the sincere version, but in the end I chickened out chose to let bygones be gone by.

Needless to say, a few years passed between then and the now that saw me sitting on Grace’s couch.  I suppose the statistician would say that our mutual choice of a particular online site, our age, and our common charm raised the probability that we would both encounter the same boy … a boy balancing his life in the city with his life as the parent of a young boy Z’s age living in my small town.  

Regardless - it was a remarkable coincidence deserving of the squeals and laughs we shared over it.
In a slightly different vein, as I took in the lovely sights of Washington this past weekend with Bella and Grace, I received a prompt from my brother to check out the video below, French Navy by Camera Obscura, from their 2009 album My Maudlin Career.  He came across it while surfing and it struck him as something he thought I would like.  My brother and I were great playmates until our teen years when his competitive hockey adventures rivaled my figure skating pursuits in separate arenas on the opposite sides of town.  We don’t speak or see each other regularly, not because we don’t like or love each other, but because our individual lives are busy and we are naturally lazy when it comes to anything that is not a fire-breathing creature of danger pressed up against our faces.  It was a pleasant unexpected surprise to receive this text from him.  How oh how could he have known I had discovered the delight of a real live Mr. French Navy of a different sort only days before.  It was another remarkable and delightful coincidence.



I am not sure what these intersections are trying to show me, but I have every reason to anticipate that it is something superbly good.

Deadlines ...

… this is not what I want to be writing about.

I want to write about “no-mance” … I want to write about romance … I want to write about transitions … I want to write about discovery … I want to write more about remembering … I want to daydream endlessly.

But there is this lump in my chest.  

I want to deny that it’s there.

I only feel it at night … when I lay there … drifting … thinking happy thoughts about my day … happy thoughts about great moments with Z … great conversations … the interesting stuff that I have read … how it inspires me to write … and my eyelids drift closed … gently … … gently

gently …

Toss.

Turn.

Leg cramp.

Deep breath.

Toss.  Turn.  Leg cramp.  Deep breath.  Visualize five … … four … … … threeeee … 

THAT’s when I can no longer avoid the pit in my chest.  There, all wrapped up in a duvet of nighttime quiet, I can no longer be distracted from it.  It’s dull ache and heaviness press down on me.  

Dead.

Lines.

Why do they cause me panic?  Why do they call them deadlines?  Is it because the effort … the sprinting … the creating … the assembling … the cramming … the printing … the typing … the everything just ends when you reach that line?  It dies.  But isn’t the whole point of all that energy to get to a new place?  A place where I’m … I don’t know … smarter … where I’m more alive? 

Historically the word deadline derives its meaning from the boundary line in a prison yard.  I imagine the prisoner after careful contemplation, plotting, preparation, deciding, and submission to his plan.  I imagine him running towards that line.  The deadline.  Fear of the inside overwhelms fear of the other side …  no longer worried about what waits across that line.  Sentries watch … guns trained … ever-ready to reward him for his efforts.

Dead.

Lines.

They loom.  They hover.  If I sprint at them, I will surely feel like death.  So I won’t.  

Soft and slow, I will tip toe and creep.  

And I will cheer when I’ve crossed the line.

Live.

Line. 

Smarter and more alive.

Milestones ...

NovemberJuliet turns four today.

It seems like it should be one hundred.

Like this space has always been here.

But it’s only four.

I look back on early ramblings and reflect on who I was then.

It was not a fun time.

But I remember laughing.

In the storm.  In the pit.  In the desert.

I remember laughing.

It was T who answered “write,” to my airy daydream of becoming a writer.

“Start writing.”

So I did.

Thanks T.  

From the Archives - Remembering . . .

Their fears.

Their hunger.

Their shivers.

Their volleys.

Their commands.

Their commitment.

Their determination.

Their comraderie.

Their sacrifice. 

I thank them, and I thank you for remembering yesterday’s soldiers and supporting today’s. 

There is so much to remember and to be thankful for.

Update on Tuesday, November 11, 2008 at 09:42PM by Norma Jean Barrett

Sooooo, a cool thing happened to me today …

a.m.  As Z and I approach the school I see one of his classmates run back to her Mom’s car. 

“Mama … mama” she wails, and I wonder what’s gotten her so upset. 

“H must be having a hard time getting to school today” I say to Z. 

I decide to approach the car to say hello to H and her mom.  As I lean into the window, her mom says “H has forgotten her poppy and she’s upset.”

I see in her Mom’s expression that she has appropriately drawn the line and will not entertain the thought of going home to retrieve the poppy, instead choosing to console H by reminding her that she will likely get another poppy later in the day.

I reach around and pull the poppy off of Z’s backpack.  The very poppy he nicked off my coat just five minutes before.  I pass it to her and whisper “Shhhh, don’t tell Z.”  She wipes her tears and we stroll up the walkway after Z.  

1030ish - I duck into the local pharmacy next to Z’s school to grab a fresh poppy for my tunic.  I’m in uniform now and walking with pride in my step, my medals clapping against my chest creating an upbeat that matches my mood.  I observe Remembrance Day with Z at his school this year.  As the only one present in uniform, I create quite a stir.  The room is especially abuzz when I rise to salute.  I speak with his class for a few minutes afterwards, and am reminded how sharp and witty young fresh minds can be.  This is truly my most memorable day of Remembrance yet.

p.m. - I return to Z’s school at the end of the day to pick him up.  I’m plain clothed again, having returned my formal uniform to its usual spot hung neatly awaiting the next occasion for wear, my poppy still pinned to the lapel.  As I walk, I hear footsteps behind me.  They seem to pick up speed, but I don’t look back.  I realise they are now beside me and glance at the hi-tops their owner is wearing.  I look up at the tall teen with curly hair tousled under his toque.

“How are you doing today?” he says.

“I am good” I say with a hint of curiosity layering my tone.

“I notice you’re not wearing a poppy” he remarks.

“That’s right” I say.  “I gave mine to a little girl who needed it this morning” I say with a smile, and add “and I’ve left the replacement on my other coat.”

“I have an extra here” and he passes it along, adding “it’s important to support our troops you know.”

“I know” I say.  “Thanks” I add, hoping he can sense just how thankful I am.

I pin the poppy on and at the edge of the same schoolyard walkway H and I strolled up earlier that day, I turn back to catch his eyes and say “Thanks again … keep spreading the word to support the troops.”

Karma …

It’s a cool thing.