Luke LaGraff - 'Another Continue? cool.'

'Another Continue? cool.'

The sun is here
It is never late-
The universe is a clock.
Does it have batteries?
Can it change them?
To the multi:
verse of lyrics of spheres?
Made to the beat
we bang out with fear.

If I cave in with thought
and wrestle the ghost
I'll wonder most about the hope
I lost before my heart did.
will be like, "Did the day come?"
"Did I have a son?" -or were my eyes dead then-
-Till the worms poked thru them.

Luckily time has
(And just might always have)
A time for me (and you,
and the never too many generations we flew)
to tell it it HAS GOT to GO!

And by go I mean continue
By go I don't mean get
By go I mean we need you
By go I mean we want you

Look. At me. I'm a dawning mass.
I'm full today. You see me now,
At the horizon, transcending again,
My life as it fell,

Into bright spring

-----------------------

'A Dawning Mass'

With the forward idea of time
I got up to become.
Since
Earth show's no way of backtrack
I woke up with the sun already in my comb.

This was with a history of abuse
of what I did with a comb-
which was nothing.
The cop did not believe me and he

Locked me up for a head half a'shave
and asking a girl her middle name.

In that dawn's sun I was a mess.

In today's light I couldn't see
my past blight's shadow
I although regret almost none of it-
There was a night
There was that one end to the nights.
Which I can not right.

So today a maroon and blue-orange sky
has a welded ball rolling
And inside is me.

It's pinballing dawn, day, and night
Crashing into love, me and some
new friends already on board.

Found out about this orb by my orbit
Around the odd.
A break of the law, too;
Too much irony to include within this here tune.

-----------------------

'The Simple Write'

I had 4 dollars
I had a piece of bread, too.
I hadn't a wallet
And an oven that had no fuse.

I lost the money
I dropped the bread on booze-
But ate it anyway.

I moved. I couldn't spend anymore...
time had arrived.
Then it moved on, luckily w/ me
To America's southwestern shore.

It has it all, now it has me.
What have I been doing?

I got clean, that moon shine
was too clear in Tennessee.

I flopped into the beach
Felt that air the sea brings
Moved into a nice dive
Gettin a job
A job I'll like, that when it rains 'about
I'll still sing!

We have 2 dogs- Chuck D
and another, named Monster.
And it's all good.

Also met a girl
Who swirls delicate jokes
And kisses like the lips of surf.
I kiss her back.
and her lips!

Luke LaGraff is a lover of sandwiches, egg nog, and one of a kind days. He used to forget them, but now has realized he shouldn't; they have more meaning than ever at this point of his life. He enjoys the sun in LA and watches hockey and funny things whenever he can. He listens to people. He's from Tennessee.

J. Allen Holt: Vague Unease and Moving

About two weeks back, my roommate commented to me, “I’m thinking of moving.” It was an off-hand comment, and, truth be told, it was something that had entered my mind for a while. When was I going to be able to move? I had just taken a week-long trip back to Kentucky, so there was a week’s worth of missed wages that I was having to overcome in the short term. I had the holidays coming up, and that meant I could squeeze more hours out of work to help offset that. January I’d be getting a bonus and have the payroll schedule fall to where I could squeeze a third paycheck between the first of January and the first of February. January is going to be my birthday month too. What better way to celebrate another year in this world than to plan a move into new digs. January it is. I’ll tell her soon so she has ample time to figure her situation out too.

Last Saturday, I was watching the Louisville football game. A very early kickoff because they don’t pay any mind to the fact that some fans could possibly have moved to a more westernese time zone where an early kickoff meant that I had to be up before 8 AM to watch the game.

Phone rings. Roommate. I’ll call her back after the game.

Message. I listen. “You know how I said I was thinking about moving? I am moving. I talked to the manager, and she said we don’t have to give notice. So, I can move out by the 1st without paying rent for December…” Not sure what was said after that, really. My head was swimming. My roommate was leaving the apartment in 10 days. I can’t afford to live here alone, which is why I had a roommate to begin with. What the hell am I going to do?

I called my best friend (who was also watching the game). He had a hard time concentrating on what I was saying due to it being the 4th quarter. Once I broke through that, we talked. We agreed that the worst case scenario would mean me sleeping on his couch until I found a place. So, there was that. Not ideal in any way, but it was certainly an option. I wasn’t going to be out on the street.
My next move was to go the route of Facebook, that wonderful social medium that was so eloquently depicted in the recent movie, you know, the one about the group of assholes with really great dialog. I get a reply in a few hours that a friend of mine that I used to work with had a room open in his house.

Let’s skip the boring bits. I meet up with him at the house. Give it a look over. Analyze the neighborhood. Meet the other housemates. I like them, and they don’t hate me. So, that’s a match. I have to fill out an application and pay a fee. I find out I can’t pay the fee over the phone, so I have to go to their office… in Santa Clarita… the week of Thanksgiving.

This is where I shout out to Jeff Allen. A great guy I work with who on Thanksgiving Eve offered then followed through with a ride to Santa Clarita so I could deposit the money and application in the office’s mail slot. He did this braving traffic of people driving out of the city for the holiday and facing the ire of his girlfriend who was holding dinner for him because he spent three hours on our excursion. He didn’t expect the traffic on the way out, but to his credit again, he didn’t just turn around and say, “Sorry, I didn’t sign on for this!”
So the day was approaching that I had to move out. I had to work every night, and I had taken on a very persistent cold. I never get sick. (In this instance, “never” is defined as “hardly ever sick enough that I would admit to it”.) The cold kept dragging on, sapping my energy and wreaking havoc on my sinus cavities. I believe this was brought on and allowed to continue due to a combination of lack of sleep, stress that comes from not knowing where you’re going to live next week, and a sudden cold snap in Los Angeles.

This morning (Monday) was my first day I didn’t have to work, and I have all day to get my stuff ready to relocate. I just didn’t know where. Last night, sleep came hard with the anxiety keeping me awake. Maybe it was the decongestant pills that kept me awake, but the anxiety sure wasn’t helping. I had made it through another night of work while being physically beaten down by this cold. I was home, but couldn’t relax because I still didn’t know where I was going to go with all the stuff I was planning to have packed up.

I woke up a little later than planned this morning, but I woke up to find a glorious text message. “so your all good buddy. You can start moving in” I have never been so happy to get a text message in all my life. I have even spent countless hours railing against texting, but not today. I spent about an hour giving everyone the news that I was indeed not going to be homeless. Now, I’m taking a break from packing up all my belongings to post a blog entry.

The topic for the week was “vague unease”. This ordeal could qualify I suppose, but I would describe it more as “acute” than “vague”.

Marsi White: Moving Day

My son will be here in an hour. I stared around the room assessing the emptiness that had rung in my heart all morning. The emptiness that described the cabinets. The emptiness that described the drawers. The emptiness that described the closets. I saw the shadows on the walls, remnants of where heirloom furniture once stood. The faded wall paper in the hallway revealed a visible outline where the picture once hung of me and my brother. A black and white remembrance of my favorite pink dress and my brother in his christening gown.

The same was true above the fireplace. Different wallpaper, different room, different picture. Same outline. Our family picture resided in that space for 50 years, updated periodically as the kids grew, though it had remained stagnant for some time now. Our kids had left long ago, and I had resisted the efforts of my daughter to replace the family picture with a portrait of the grand kids. The sacred spot above the fireplace was reserved for my children. My eyes quickly brushed past the empty wall, the recollection still too painful from the loss of my husband.

The house had been bustling all week. My son and daughter and their willing spouses took their respective turns packing my things. I tried not to watch, each memory more formidable than the last. I knew where most of my things were headed: my crystal distributed equally to my children; my mother’s china to my daughter; my husband’s tools to my son; and my furniture mostly to charity, as were many of my husband’s clothes and such.

My clothes were moving to a new home across town. Selected by my late husband, we had been on a waiting list for more than a year. It is a beautiful complex. I am to have a one-bedroom apartment on the first floor, not far from the dining room or the activity areas. Unlike the house I am leaving behind, the apartment is brand new. It has a small little kitchen, complete with its own oven, refrigerator and dishwasher. I know I should be grateful for the availability of this new domicile at a time such as this. I know I will enjoy the activities, which include card games like bridge and the modern activities that I suppose I could try, like yoga and Tai Chi.

Today, however, the sentiment in leaving my home is almost too much to bare. I walked through the dining room one last time. In my mind, I can clearly envision past family dinners. Excited teens talking about the newest trends in music or the pros and cons of the colleges they are exploring or the high school football game. Before that, I can envision my son sitting on phone books so he can sit like a “big boy” at the dinner table, picking at his peas and trying to feed his Brussels sprouts to the dog under the table. As we celebrated two weddings and the birth of five grandchildren, the family had outgrown the old dining room table long ago, now requiring seating for eleven. But we made do. Everyone felt included. So many memories.

Upgraded from some of the other units, there is room for a small dining area in my new apartment. The size of table that will fit in the assigned space is better suited for hosting coffee dates and not meals, however. I have not stopped to picture the context to which I will have visits or who will be sitting around that little table. I just know that family dinners are now out of my control. My new oven will not accommodate a turkey; my refrigerator is not meant to hold leftovers of any mass.

My daughter tells me that my piano will fit in my new bedroom. Not ideal, but home would not be home without it. So many happy times have centered around that piano. So many sorrows, I have played out through song. Loving memories in the wind, as my tired fingers gently caressed each key.

I walked through the upstairs rooms one last time. I stared at our backyard. The trees needed trimming. Normally, the gardener would be here on Saturday. Now, not my worry.

As my son arrived, I took a breath. A long, deep breath, suffocating from memories. I held my head up, smiled and thought, "I can do this." As my son meandered towards my front door, something deep in my core perked up and the light in my eyes returned. It might have only been for a moment. But in that moment, I moved forward. And I moved out.


Marsi lives in San Diego, CA with her husband, two children and dog. A private foundation grants writer by trade, Marsi explores her creative side by contributing to Writing Writer Writest. She is a breast cancer survivor and keeps a blog of her journey, entitled Nip It.

Meg Wood: Stop and Smell the (What's the Opposite of Roses?)

Every summer at the library where I work, we box up the previous year's research journals and send them off to the bindery where, as legend has it, a bunch of convicts at the Walla Walla state penitentiary bundle them up into volumes and bind them in hardcover.

I say "as legend has it" because this prison thing is not exactly advertised on the bindery's web site ("Now with 85% more felonious labor!"). I only heard it once, from a customer support rep, and it's entirely possible she was pulling my leg. But I like the idea, especially since the only other bindery in our region is run by a group of Trappist Monks. That seems like a good balance. Balance is key.

Anyway, about six weeks after we send them out, the journals come back to us neatly packed in brand-new boxes. As soon as I see the delivery truck roll up, I always bounce out of my chair with excitement, calling out loudly my dibs on getting to unpack them (not that I've ever had to arm-wrestle anyone for the gig, mind you -- it's more the principle of the thing).

Why so much enthusiasm? Two words: sweet, sweet packing paper.

Sorry: four words.

The bindery, you see, uses real packing paper when prepping our materials for return. And, oh, man, do I ever love that paper. You know the stuff I mean? The manila colored stuff that feels like newsprint and comes in large sheets -- maybe two feet by three feet? The real stuff. The stuff used by professionals. The bona fide shizznit of packing paper.

It's nice paper, no doubt, but what I really love about it is the way it smells. The first time I ever sliced open one of those bindery boxes and the sweet smell of those pages wafted up to the sensors in my nostrils, I was almost knocked off my feet by a sudden tsunamic wave of nostalgia. Smells are extremely tightly connected to memories for me, and that was an aroma I hadn't encountered in a very long time. A smell of home. Of change. Of new beginnings.

The smell of my childhood.

I grew up the youngest of three kids in a Marine Corps family (though, I should note I'm only the youngest by five minutes, and I contend my twin was only born first because I shoved her out so I could have a few moments of blissful, womby peace). During my youth, we moved multiple times, usually from one side of the country to the other and then back again: South Carolina, Oregon, Texas, Virginia, Arizona, Japan, Rhode Island, Pennsylvania, etc. etc. ad infinitum (or nauseum, I suppose, depending on how you feel about Texas).

Every time, the movers would pack everything up in that wonderful paper on one end, and on the other, in our new house, our new town, our new lives, we would unpack it again. Though many military kids lament the constant uprootings and replantings of their youths, I loved it. Every place a new start. Every town new people, new schools, new experiences. I didn't make friends easily, and I didn't need to -- I wouldn't be there long enough for it to matter all that much. The shorter your roots, the easier your transplantings -- it was the perfect lifestyle for an introverted self-loather like me.

Perhaps oddly, unpacking was always the best part of every relocation for me. Even if it only took a week to get to the new HQ, it still felt like everything in the boxes marked "Megan's Room" was brand new. Unpacking took days -- it was like a long holiday overloaded with gifts. Gifts and hope and aspirations. Stuff could even be organized as it was put away this time; maybe it would even stay that way. (My mother just snorted derisively at that last sentence, mind you. So did my husband.)

And now for the secret sharing part -- the part I bet you don't know about. There is, in fact, a method for dealing with all that delicious packing paper. A technique we kids were taught by my parents as soon as we were old enough to assist. You see, you can't just wad it up and chuck it in a bin, one smooshed-up sheet at a time; you'll never fit it all in that way.

No, sirs, there's a procedure. What you do is this: as you unwrap, you pull the corners of each crumpled sheet gently apart, removing all trace of whatever shape once nested inside it. Next, lay it flat on a hard surface (table, floor, teetering tower of unpacked boxes -- your choice depending on risk assessment), and then quickly smooth it out, edge to edge, with the flat outside of your hands. Smooth it sharply, karate-chop style. The paper makes a brisk whip-whip sound as you go. Once it'll hold a more-or-less flatness, move on to the next object in the box. Unwrap, pull corners, lay flat. The next sheet goes on top of the previous one, whip-whip. Then the next sheet on top again, whip-whip. And then the next, and the next, and the next again.

Breathe in the smells as you go: the paper, an extremely distinct combination of raw tree pulp and dryer lint (don't ask me; I but know 'tis true); your stuff, like your last home; your new room, like fresh paint and looming adventure. And possibly mold.

When you have a good-sized stack of flattened paper, start at one edge and roll the pile up tightly, a paper jelly-roll. Then, you see, you can stand this tube up in the bin, tucking others in around it. Fitting in three, four, maybe even five times the amount of paper that would've gone in the same space had you just lobbed it in there one crumpled piece at a time.

There's no need to rush, mind you. Transition is a process. Fresh starts take time, care. Embrace the process. Don't neglect the procedure. The procedure is the key to everything. Mindfulness, determination, method. This new start is going to be the one. If you're careful enough with it, it will almost certainly be the one.

The first time I ever unpacked one of those bindery boxes at work, the time I got that first blissful emanation of reminder, everyone within ear shot of my office came by to see what that "whip-whip" sound was all about. I explained the strategy in detail, mostly to faces that seemed thoroughly unimpressed. Whatever, I thought, as the person arched an eyebrow and said, "Um, oooookay." What do they know about packing paper, I continued, setting the next sheet carefully on top of my pile.

As I ran my hands smoothly, briskly across its corners, leveling out all its bumps and puckers, I breathed in that smell, heady with memories of the dozen mulligans of my youth. Whip-whip, whip-whip, whip-whip, repeat. Whip-whip, whip-whip, whip-whip, begin.


Meg Wood is a librarian who also reads a lot of books and watches a lot of movies. You can find out what she thinks of those last two things at her web site and blog: http://megwood.com and http://megwood.wordpress.com. She also likes Facebook friends and Twitter followers. She's just sayin'.

Josh Grimmer: A quick heads up.

Hey everyone, just letting you all know that I'll be taking a week off from running the blog so I can move. Not from the desk to the kitchen, but from Hollywood to North Hollywood. Everything is going to be run next week by the loveliest editor a guy could ever want, Meg Wood. When you submit your essays, please be sure to ship them off to meg@megwood.com. That is all.

I love each and every one of you in the creepiest way possible.

Sean Tabb: Newton’s Laws of Motion (Unabridged)

Newton’s First Law of Motion (aka The Law of Inertia)

Objects in motion remain in motion at more or less the same speed and in the same direction unless/until they encounter an external obstacle or force that knocks them on their ass. Objects at rest are either inanimate, dead, or have a lot more leisure time than you do.

Newton’s Second Law of Motion (aka F=MA)

Acceleration is realized when a force (energy) acts upon a mass (object). The greater the mass of the object being accelerated, the greater the amount of force needed to accelerate the object. Now we’re getting algebraic. Now we’re putting alphabet letters into numeric equations. If you’re intimidated by such things, this would probably be a good time to make yourself scarce. By the logic of the Second Law, the Second Law itself would be defined as the Force that acted upon a Mass (i.e. your algebra-addled brain) causing it to Accelerate (i.e. down to the corner pub for a beer).

Newton’s Third Law of Motion (aka Costanza’s Law)

For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. In other words, if there’s a particular outcome you seek, and you know that your actions toward achieving that outcome will result in reactions opposite the intended result (for that is what the Third Law prescribes), then clearly the workaround solution is to DO THE OPPOSITE. If action results in opposite reaction, then doing the opposite will result in a favorable outcome. This is an especially useful tactic in matters of love, child-rearing, and domestic disputes involving dishwashers and laundry.

Newton’s Fourth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Coitus Non-Interruptus)

Objects that are rocking (i.e. a customized 1975 Chevy Van with curtained windows and kick-ass, airbrushed art featuring scantily clad women floating in space) should not be disturbed (i.e. knocked upon).

Newton’s Fifth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Post-Ablutionary Exsiccation)

After bathing, do not attempt to dry off like a dog. Vigorous shaking of this nature will result in painful and embarrassing compression of the cervical vertebrae. Use a towel instead.

Newton’s Sixth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Book Boxes & Major Appliances)

Lift with your back, not your legs.

Newton’s Seventh Law of Motion (aka The Law of Centrifugal Force)

Refrain from eating corn dogs before going on amusement park rides.

Newton’s Eighth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Friction)

When applying your hand in a petting or stroking motion, it is best and least resistant to move in the direction of the surface grain. This applies in situations as diverse as wood-polishing, affection towards cats, and the grating of parmesan cheese.

Newton’s Ninth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Screws)

Righty-loosey, lefty-tighty. If that doesn’t work, refer to Law of Motion #3.

Newton’s Tenth Law of Motion (aka The Law of Grace)

When slipping on the ice, try and make it look purposeful, as if you were suddenly, irresistibly possessed by the desire to practice your funkiest dance moves. Strangers and random passers-by will be impressed by your spirit and childlike spontaneity. When you get home, take two ibuprofen.

There’s a pretty good chance that Sean Tabb resembles the guy your sister dated in college. He gets that a lot. There’s an almost equally good chance that he DID date your sister in college, and just doesn’t remember. He does his parenting, husbanding, living and writing from his home in Portland, Maine. Check out his website at http://punctuatedequilibriumblog.wordpress.com, or follow his drivel on Twitter at http://twitter.com/pithnvinegar.

Kim Harmeling: Home

My husband and I ended up in Texas a number of years ago after my job went away and the company offered me another opportunity in Houston. We could see new places, meet new people, learn new stuff -- it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Houston is a place as different economically, socially, and politically from Seattle as it’s possible to be and still be in the same country (though if you ask anyone there Texas IS a different country and never doubt that they are serious).

The biggest change, however, turned out to be something we never suspected. We never thought that moving away from our families would be so hard. We thought that with phone and email we’d have no problem keeping in touch, and we’d see them at holidays, so no big deal right? Wrong. It’s just not the same as having them local. The phone bill to our parents was astronomical and the emotional toll difficult on both ends of the line. My new job went badly, my husband couldn’t find a job at all and got tired of being a house husband, and the house we bought was drafty, hot, and bug-infested. The dogs even got sick from the heat and developed allergies to the lawn grass and the fire ants.

We felt disconnected – adrift in a place with unfamiliar societal rules and full of people with no inclination to teach us. A place where it’s legal to carry a weapon without a permit as long as it’s out in the open where everyone can see it and where having an open container of liquor in the car is okay as long as it’s in a bag where no one can see it. The combination of the two doesn’t even bear thinking about but the results made the news every single day. A place where it was every person for themselves, more overtly than anywhere we’d ever been. It felt wrong on every level but we couldn’t figure out why, in this new city where we were supposed to be having a great experience, we were so very unhappy.

Family for us is ballast, providing the stability we need to navigate the uncertainties of life. Houston was full that – uncertainties. Jobs, house, health, friends, all of it unknowable. We felt stuck there, having made the commitment to move and seeing no way out of the situation. Stuck without the stability we were used to and, to our surprise, discovered was essential to both happiness and sanity.

We lasted one year, almost to the day, before we got out and came back home as fast as we could. It took us two of the longest days I can ever remember, just to get out of the damn state of Texas. Five days later when we drove across the Washington state line, I thought my husband was going to pull the car over, get out and kiss the ground.

This particular moving experience gave me a deep appreciation for the people and places where I grew up. It’s amazing how many people move away to a different city, different state, or even a different country for college, a job, to serve their country, or just for the adventure of it, only to move back home later in their lives. It might be two years or twenty years, but they do come back. Not necessarily to their parent’s house, mind you, though economics force many to do so, but at least back to the city or even the neighborhood where they grew up. Back to home territory, gone to ground so to speak, in an area where the rules, faces and social norms are familiar. A place where you can settle in and breathe deep. Back to family, in whatever form that may take.

We return with the things we learned while moving around, pieces of culture picked up along the way, friendships made in distant cities or lands, new ideas and perspectives that we share with our family and friends and which make our shared lives richer and more appreciated for the experiences had elsewhere. So, move away to that school, job, lover, or locale you have to discover, but don’t be surprised to find yourself moving back for reasons you might not be able to define. Write while you’re gone, email, or call but come on back home when you’re ready and share with us what you’ve learned.

We can hardly wait.

J. Allen Holt: The Girl and the Salami Sandwiches

The first time I ever moved was to go away to college. I was eager to move far, far away. I wanted to live in another time zone, another planet to my teenage mind. I settled on Louisville, which was a little over two hours away. It was a different time zone. Growing up in a small town in Kentucky or probably anywhere else you have two reactions. You never want to leave, or you can’t wait to get out. I was the latter. I didn’t hate my family (who are nearly all in the former category), and it’s hard to explain to them that is the case sometimes. I think when you don’t want to leave, you find it hard to understand why anyone else would.

Going to college was my first real taste of freedom. I had my own place, albeit a dorm room. I had a schedule, but no one was going to chastise me if I didn’t follow through on it. If what you do with freedom is a test of responsibility, eighteen-year-old me was not to be trusted to take care of a cactus. It’s certainly a part in how I went from budding engineering student at the University of Louisville to struggling writer in Los Angeles. No regrets.

The next major move came about five years later. I was bartending and waiting tables and actually making a pretty comfortable living in my own way. My best friend Paul invited me out for lunch at Red Lobster one day. The writing was becoming an almost real thing, and doing that in Louisville didn’t seem to have much future. Nothing else seemed to have much future either the way it was going. I was writing for films (or singular film at the time), and they don’t make a lot of movies in Kentucky. Comfort was our enemy, we decided. No one did anything good if they were comfortable, because there’s no reason for it. It seemed a fair hypothesis, so we decided to leave our comfortable lives that day.

I went back to the small town home because it was cheap. I spent the next six months saving up every penny I scraped together and planned for the first leg of my westward trip, Aspen. Aspen, where it’s always warm and the women flock there like the salmon to Capistrano, to quote Lloyd Christmas. We did a lot of that in Colorado. The night before I left on a greyhound for Carbondale is my most vivid recollection from that move. It was the first time I met “the girl”. People who know me well will know who that is, and I feel most everyone else will at least understand the concept. I was having a goodbye drink with a friend who owned a restaurant in the small town, and she came crashing into our conversation like a beautiful hurricane. I still remember, when my friend told her why we were there (wishing me a bon voyage), her response. “Take me with you!” I would have if I could.

About two months later, we were informed that we were to vacate our amazing house in Colorado. It was settled at the foot of the biggest mountain in the valley. I mean literally at the foot. There was no backyard. The ground went vertical into mountain at the back walls. There was a river full of rainbow trout (presumably flocking to somewhere) running across the front yard. Why we had to leave isn’t so important. It just involves a divorced couple trying to sell the house as we rented and a fantastic party. The two worlds didn’t exist peacefully together. So we had four weeks and a decision. We decided to go to Hollywood since that was the eventual plan after all. It would be easy, we thought. It’d always been easy before, so why not again?

About a month later, we were crashing at a friend’s campus apartment at USC. A month after that, we were eating salami sandwiches (and only salami sandwiches). Every waking hour was spent looking for work. I found a job, and a month later Paul found a job too. We still ate mostly salami sandwiches for a while, except on those special days when one of us would bring home leftover food from our restaurant. Months went by. “If it was easy, everyone would do it” became our mantra. I started to feel like I was gaining some footing. Then, the restaurant closed, and I was back at square one. The thought of more months of submitting resumes and eating salami sandwiches was too much to bear. I tucked tail and ran back to Kentucky.

I went back to my friend that wished me farewell, this time looking for work. He hired me on the spot and that was that. I busted my ass to send back my share of the rent to Los Angeles until the lease was out. I met the collection of crazies that became my new work family there. I can call them crazies because I certainly fit in with that group. I still count those crazy people at that crazy place as some of the best friends I ever made. The girl was there. I didn’t introduce myself which sparked a confrontation. She was pissed off at me for being aloof to her. She had forgotten the night before I left for Colorado, and I either shamed her when I did or creeped her out. Either way, it started something great that I was sure would have to end before I wanted it to. I was right. We remained close friends in a begrudging way.

It took a few years of living back there when the writing started to come to the forefront again. I even had to fly out to Los Angeles for a meeting at a for real, big time movie studio. The timing seemed right. This screenwriting stuff looked like it might actually be an attainable thing. If I wanted to make a serious go of it, I had to be in LA or New York. The girl was gone now (30 months prior by her own hand). I had everything to gain and nothing to lose. I bribed a friend to make the drive with me and set off for the glory that waited in Hollywood. Again, I had the stars in my eyes. Four years later, I’m still toiling and haven’t forgotten the girl or the salami sandwiches.

Katie McMahon: the expensive bed that someone else is now sleeping on, with their own sheets and blankets and pillows and worries

She opened the door and her hair was blond and that’s when I knew she didn’t know what she was doing. Would she ever? Blue stripes on her white t-shirt and a gray sweater with the top button missing. She was always wearing some type of sweater to cover something up. I didn’t even know what anymore.

It was raining and she was selling her bed that I bought her, so she could use the money to a buy a cheaper bed, thousands of miles away. I didn’t know that she would end up sleeping on different beds and mattresses that lie on stained carpet floors. She would never get comfortable, no matter how expensive the bed. She would sleep, but only because she was human and that’s what humans do.

We would sit across the table from each other eating turkey sandwiches or chicken stir-fry. She would eat the rice or the tortillas and I would always eat both. She would start crying if I asked her too many questions, but then say she was okay. She was angry because I thought she ought to have certain things in her life to be okay: a good job, a nice apartment, money, maybe a husband or a boyfriend, and at least some plan or path to follow. She kept saying, “I don’t know,” and then getting angry because I thought that meant she was unhappy or disappointed in herself.

When I first met her, she was this tiny little thing and I could hold her in my arms or I could put her into the arms of other people. I thought she wouldn’t know the difference. Then, she started getting bigger and forming words into sentences and expecting to have conversations with me, but we had nothing in common. We took short car rides where we would sit in silence. She would cry loudly in her room at night and I would say nothing. What was I supposed to say? We didn’t even know each other.

We were both alone in that house. The more alone we got, the more we both tried to connect with each other somehow. We both liked movies. And pizza. So we started going to the movies or watching movies on TV and eating pizza on the couch. I would sit at one end and she would sit way on the other side. She would look at me sometimes from across the couch and I could tell she felt sorry for me. I felt sorry for her too.

Eventually, we started talking. I could tell sometimes that she was lying when she told me stories, and she knew that I was always lying whenever I said anything out loud. This is the way we related to one another.

I knew that she was going to leave soon enough, to go and make mistakes in other places. She had to find out what it was like to be alone and lonely, all on her own. And for a minute, I stopped lying and I cried because I didn’t know what I was going to do when she was gone. I could eat pizza and see movies alone, but lying over the phone just isn’t as gratifying. We didn’t even know each other that well yet.

By the time she came back, I couldn’t understand her again and she would just sit across from me all teary-eyed and frustrated. I would try to grab her hand and she would let me take it for a moment, but then take it away to nervously scratch her head for ten minutes. I would ask her the same questions and she would give me the same answers three times in a row. I just kept forgetting. Then, she would look around at everyone except for me and I would forget that I was even there.

I wanted to grab her and squish her into a tiny person so I could start over and get to know her better, but she already felt too far away. She was different now. She always apologized and said thank you and never asked for help, but took it when it was offered to her. I could tell she felt bad about selling the bed, but she didn’t want to stay anymore. Coming back was part of her list of mistakes and now she could check it off and leave again.

I told her twenty more lies before she left and she could only tell me two. She apologized for the rain. She let me hug her goodbye and take her out to dinner one more time, so she could scratch her head and drink glass after glass of water, until she shivered and said she was too cold to stay still any longer.

Katie McMahon is a lady who lives in the North Hollywood area. She has a bachelor's degree that she keeps on her bookcase and looks at sometimes. She is getting a master's degree to put on her nightstand. Sometimes she takes pictures which you can look at here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/katiemcmahon/sets, but you don't have to if you're busy right now.

Steve Strong: A Tale of Two Attitudes

My oldest son was 13 years old when he told me in no uncertain terms that he would have nothing to do with picking grapes in a vineyard. That was the beginning of the problems between him and me.

I explained to him that this vineyard was an organized Welfare Farm. That the recipients of the raisins will be poor people, some of them desperately hungry, and that this is the least we can do when we’ve been so blessed to live a life of plenty. I was shocked to hear him say that he didn’t care for anyone but himself, and that he’d run away before he made a trip to the vineyard to work in the dust and heat of the San Joaquin valley for poor people he didn’t know.

True to his word, he did run away. He ran out of my reach. He ran down the street. He ran for a mile. And then he walked back to his mom’s house. His mom had no such requirements for a young man to serve other people. His mom would let him sit in his room and relax, while others stepped up and did the work he would have done if he had gone with us.

As it was, my second son (who was seven) witnessed the tension between his brother and me, and quickly volunteered to go with me to the vineyard. Although he was a bit young to be doing that kind of work, we went together. I put a grape harvesting knife in his right hand, a glove on his left hand, and together we went to work, toiling away for the benefit of people we will never meet.

It’s been eight years, and a lot of rough road since that landmark day. I can see the scenes of our lives pass by since then – so many days of heartache, of struggle, of a few precious wins, and many deflating loses. My eldest son’s life has few highlights anymore. He’s 21 years old. A high school dropout. Unemployed. No intention of ever applying for a job. A drug addict.

My younger son is now 15 years old. He is a typical teenager in most respects, and of course, he tries my patience at times. But he is a young man who has never missed an opportunity to work with me at the vineyard on that one day a year we harvest grapes. He gets up with me at 5:00 on a Saturday morning so we can be in the vineyard by 6:00. When we finish our assigned rows, he’s right at my side as we help others who are short-handed. And when we finish, he and I can look each other in the eye and feel like we accomplished something. And we did it together, like a team.

What is it that makes individuals like my sons so different? Is it genetic? Is it the way they were raised? Can it be as simple as the difference in their spirits – that soul that entered their bodies as babies?

I don’t know the answer to those questions, but I feel like it has little to do with work ethic, or respect for parents and their rules. I think the attitude is all about selfishness.

As I get older I see selfishness as the root of so many problems in our families and our society in general. Youth are constantly being told to “be yourself” or “do what makes you happy.” In the 1970’s, when I was a teenager, people used to say, “Do your own thing.”

But that’s certainly not the attitude that made this country great, or enabled us to live an economic life that is so much more comfortable than most other countries. When my father was young, no one cared if he liked his vocation or not. He just went out and worked – and did his best to provide for his family. If he did blue-collar work, or if he worked in an office, it made no difference. It was all about working hard and providing for your loved ones. How did we fall so far from that ethic in just two generations?

To combat the disease of selfishness today, our church manufactures opportunities for youth to be in the service of their fellow man. Teenagers are expected to do service projects on a small scale every month, and once or twice a year they will do a full day of major service for the community (like tree planting, graffiti removal or something like that). And then, twice a year they go to the raisin vineyard to prune vines or to harvest grapes.

With this service training as a background, by the time LDS youth are young adults they have learned to respond quickly when others are in need. Young women can step up to offer childcare to those in a pinch or can quickly whip up a casserole for a neighbor in a time of crisis.

Young men are called on once a month or so to help someone move. By the time an LDS man is 40 years old, he may have helped 50 families move. If he owns his own pickup truck, the number may be closer to 100.

Some families will be totally prepared, with boxes packed, carpets cleaned and the kids sent to grandma’s to be out of the way. But most families will not be pre-packed. Sometimes I’ve had to do dishes before I could pack them. Sometimes I’ve had to do laundry before I could fold and pack some stranger’s items. And yes, I’ve picked up couches and found moldy food underneath.

But I tell my younger son the same thing my mom told me, “Hands are washable.” That was code for: Quit being a baby. Get back to work.

I’m thankful my mother taught me to be a good worker. And I pray both my sons will put their own wants aside, and learn to serve other people.