A Polish Wedding

                                                    4/18/14 - "A Polish Wedding"

     Blogger's Note:  Roman's fourth birthday has arrived, and I considered writing about that.  We gave him presents and some candle-lit cupcakes; we're throwing a big party for him on Tuesday.  I'm really enjoying this stage of his life, and I selfishly want to pause the process right here for a while.
     But I have an agenda.
     Coming in June, Joanna and I will be heading to Poland.  This trip will mark our fifth journey to our Polski neighbors, and I'm really looking forward to it.  We'll be celebrating Amelia's first birthday, her baptism, mine and Joanna's Polish anniversary, and HER BROTHER'S WEDDING.  Why did I write that in all caps? Because Polish weddings deserve all caps.  Why?  Well, that's the subject of today's post...
     I considered saving mine and Joanna's adventures overseas for after our "How We Met" story.  And I probably will for most of them.  But, I'm hoping that I'll have a lot of free time while we're on our European vacation.  If I do, then I want to write.  About what?
     I sometimes daydream that I write this Layman's Travel Guide.
     While Joanna and I were in Crete, I had bought this travel guide that explained in very systematic, drab text about the various points-of-interest on the Greek island.  It was useful I suppose, but rather stale.
     Imagine if you will that someone like you or I were to write such a guide.  A drunken, Kentuckian with a penchant for writing goes on some world tour describing the sights and sounds in a such a way that the average person could enjoy reading it.  Here's an example:
     "The four major cities of Crete are, from east to west, Agios Nikolaos, Heraklion, Rethymno, and Chania.  A snobby, British tour guide that we met said that each city is reputed for shit like art and war and science and...  hell, I don't remember which is which.  Except Chania.  Chania is the city of love on Crete.  If you're going to Crete, make sure you check out Chania.  The Adriatic Sea laps against a cobblestone landing where umbrella-covered tables line the shore and a maitre d encourages strollers to come try their fish or their lamb or their rank-ass cheese they call Saganaki.  Their food tastes like shit except for their fish if you don't mind picking through the fucking bones.  And, as soon as they have you sitting at one of their tables, the maitre d, previously charismatic and smiling as though he's your best friend, wants nothing to do with you.  But it's all worth it because you're sitting just a block from narrow, market-lined alleys where peddlers are anxious to haggle anything from scarves to sandals to original art.  And you're sitting there listening to a sect of Mediterranean Sea washing against the sandstone while a mix of French, Italian, Russian, German, and Polish tourists are conversing over wine and ouzo.  What's ouzo?  Well, it's just Jager on steroids.  They make the shit from grape vines, not grapes but the fucking vines and leaves.  What asshole thought, 'I'm going to make some alcohol from vines and leaves.'  And a little dab'll do ya.  It tastes like black licorice.  And I don't recommend a lot.  One shot and you'll be fucked up.  I saw this Greek mother fucker drinking ouzo and he didn't even know his fucking name.  I don't think.  He didn't look like he did.  But I don't speak Greek.  So he might've."
     So, while we're in Europe, I want to write shit like that.  If I have time.  And I'd better have time.
     Arek (Joanna's brother) and his fiancé Ewa are having a wedding that I think I'm prepared for.  My first experience (what I'll be describing today) didn't go so well.  My second experience was mine and Joanna's wedding where I practiced what I learned from the first wedding (which was stay sober if you don't want to be a total fool at your own wedding).  But Arek's and Ewa's wedding?  I think I have it figured out now.  We'll see.  Now I'm free to drink and dance and have fun, but I also think I know my limits.  I think I'll know when to say "time to chill for a bit."  We'll see.
     So, for everyone else to understand, it's important to explain what a Polish wedding is like.  I get asked that all the time.  It's impossible to explain in just a few words.  And, being raised a Southern Baptist, I'm not sure which traditions are Polish and which are Catholic.  So, I'm just going to recount my first Polish wedding experience and let you sort through what's what.
     So, grab a bottle of Pan Tadeusz and  be well rested.  Because, we're about to go to a Polish wedding.  What's the big deal?  Oh, buddy, let me tell ya...
     Listening to:  John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John "You're The One That I Want"

     Joanna had told me to rest all day.  Polish weddings are almost always on Saturdays; and, we had just been lounging around.  She also told me not to eat too much.  "We'll be eating a lot later," she said.  What the fuck ever.  When I'm hungry, I'm going to eat.  But, I'd tried to take it easy.  I'd try anyway.
     Around 3:30pm, Joanna said it was time to go.  We loaded into her father's minivan.  We crammed her mother, her father, her brother Arek, his girlfriend Katie, Joanna, and myself into the vehicle.  We were heading to Wadowice, the hometown of Pope John Paul II, also the place where Joanna and her childhood best friend, Joanna (cute ain't it?) grew up.  She told me we would need to stop and get a bouquet of flowers.  The traditional, Polish wedding gift is a bouquet of flowers and about $200 cash.
     Now, I've always thought that money is a terrific wedding gift.  When a young couple is first getting started, what better way to help them blast off than a bit of cash?  But $200??  At first, I thought that seemed pretty steep.  Later, once I found out what we got for the money (basically $100 per person), I changed my tune.
     "Pay attention," my wife said.  "We'll be having a wedding here the next time we come.  You need to learn how it works."
     We arrived a little late.  When we got there, the large cathedral was so full that the audience had spilled onto the steps outside.  I was a little saddened upon the discovery, because I had never seen a Catholic wedding (or a Polish one for that matter).  I really wanted to see what they were doing in there.  But, we patiently waited with the pigeons for the ceremony to end.  Joanna told me not to fret.  The rite is long and boring with exhausted orations from the priest and ceremonious customs.  We had, she assured me, been spared.
     Soon enough, the crowd began to exit the cathedral.  People tossed pennies (or grosz) into the air.
     Joanna and Marcin Jurzak, a picturesque couple that looked stunning in their wedding attire, stepped outside.  They knelt and began picking up the pennies.  Apparently, tradition dictates that whoever picks up the most pennies will be the best with money.  I wasn't sure who won.
     At last, Joanna and Marcin stood just below the cathedral steps as a line of people holding envelopes and bouquets was formed to greet the alluring couple.  One by one, the bride and groom greeted their family and friends with hugs and kisses as they were handed their gifts.
     As we approached, I shook the groom's hand and the bride kissed my cheek.  At first, I thought it was because I was looking so good; but, then I noticed that she was doing that to all of the guys in line.  Joanna and Joanna exchanged brief but heart-felt pleasantries as we handed them their gifts.  I was introduced to her life-long friend, and we began to load back into the minivan.  We left the cathedral around 5:15pm.
     We followed a caravan of vehicles through quaint villages and charming countryside until we arrived at this lake-side country club with a crew of servers and valets.  I, having trimmed my diet per Joanna's advice, was rather hungry.  I knew how receptions such as this went in America.  We'd be waiting an hour before food was offered; my grumbling stomach wasn't feeling very patient.
     Inside, long tables were columned throughout the large room.  A head table sat near a bar, and a live band was playing something elegant.  The band consisted of a drummer, a guitarist, a bassist, and a violinist.  They seemed rather talented; the singing duties volleyed from the male guitarist and the female violinist.
     When we found our places, I was, simply put, amazed.  An empty bowl with some small crackers sat in front of me beside an empty glass that I could fill with anything I wanted.  Glass bottles of Pepsi, wine, and water had been generously displayed before us next to a pitcher of some type of juice.  A large fruit plate had everything from grapes to apples, and a tiered display of pastries sat tempting my eager eyes.  I looked around ravenously for someone to start; I didn't want to be the first.
     Also, small bottles of something called Pan Tadeusz were innocently stationed at each place setting.
     "What's Pan Tadeusz?" I asked Joanna.
     "Polish vodka.  Pan means 'mister' in Polish.  So it mean Mr. Tadeusz.  'Pan Tadeusz' is to Poland what 'Huckleberry Finn' is to America.  It is celebrated book in our literature.  The vodka was named after the book," she explained.
     I've never been crazy about hard liquor, so I asked her if beer would be an option.  She explained that at Polish weddings most people drank either vodka or wine; but, if I wanted, I could go to the bar and ask for a beer.  I begged her to join me, because I didn't know anyone.  Also, I was afraid there would be a language barrier.  After a little pleading, she acquiesced.
     After landing a tasty glass of Polish Żywiec I returned to the table a little happier than I had left it.  "Happy now?" Joanna checked.
     I smiled and took a big swig in response.  "Just don't mix vodka and beer," she warned.  Whatever.
     Just a couple of minutes after we had sat down, servers quickly began ladling out grzybowa or mushroom soup into our bowls.
     I'm pretty open-minded when it comes to food, but I had come to discover that the Polish palate ranged from one end of the culinary spectrum to the other.  I cautiously tried the zupa (soup).  I was very relieved to discover I liked it.  It wasn't too dissimilar from our version of mushroom soup except that it may have been a little more brothy with larger pieces of mushrooms.
     I gulped down the soup and willed myself to be patient.  I was still hungry, but I felt certain that the wait for the next course would be lengthy.  I could do this.  "Pace yourself," Joanna warned.  Whatever.  Apparently, she forgot to whom she was married.
     No sooner than I had finished the soup, another bowl was sat in front of me.  I recognized the beet soup with what I called a Polish egg roll sitting in it.  It's called barszcz z krokietem.  The Polish "egg roll" was a ground beef-filled pastry that was deep fried.  I knew I liked it, so I didn't pause.  I just gulped it down.
     "Pace yourself," Joanna reiterated.

     "I'm hungry," I insisted.
     "Just pace yourself," she punctuated.
     I had decided that Polish tradition must dictate that two soups would be served before the main course; but, no quicker than I had finished the barszcz then another plate was sat in front of me.  Rolls of raw salmon were artfully flourished on a plate garnished with a dill sauce.  I love raw salmon, so I giddily went to work.
     Halfway through the plate, I finished off the beer; so, I made a trip to the bar to get another.  I noticed no one else seemed to be drinking beer, but the stuff was just too delicious to divorce.
     "Pace yourself," I mocked Joanna as I returned to my seat.  Smitten, she shrugged, "ok.  you will see."
     I finished the salmon, which was removed in place of a plate filled with fried fritters and sausages and cabbage salads.  Apparently, this was the main course.
     At last, as far as eating was concerned, I began to pace myself.  The previous rounds had done the trick of curbing my appetite.  The food continued to be piquant, but I was nearing the final battle and felt no need to hurry.
     I checked on my companions.  Joanna and Katie had slowed down considerably.  They had relegated themselves to sipping on wine and nibbling at their plates.  Arek, on the other hand, as far as food was concerned, was keeping pace with me.  However, he was sipping on a shot of Pan Tadeusz much like others at our table, sometimes chasing it with a drink of Pepsi.  I was enjoying most Polish customs, but I was secretly wondering why no one was drinking their savory beer.  Oh well, their loss.
     After I had picked apart the fried plate, a server came and took it away.  In its place, a plate filled with an odd assortment of meats and salads replaced my setting.  I was introduced to a clear gelatin that had shreds of meat and pieces of sausages suspended in it.  Joanna said that it was called kurczak w galarecie.  I tried a taste of it, and for the first time that night, I found something that I did not like.  Whoever came up with the idea of suspending meat inside of clear Jell-O deserves to be punched in the gut.  I looked around and saw that no one else shared my sentiment.  People were loving the stuff; some were even complimenting the strange delicacy.  I was pretty full anyway, so I decided that leaving the meat gelatin alone might be prudent.
     And, as far as food and drink were concerned, so the night went.  I kept my beer glass filled.  I would occasionally taste the wine or the vodka.  Plates would be removed and replaced with something else.  I began to think that they were playing a practical joke on me.  I mean no one could eat this much, but everyone was being treated equally.
     I'll quit describing the food now; but, please understand, that it kept coming for the remainder of the night.  Servers would make sure that we had the drinks that we wanted, be it wine or juice or water or vodka.  After a while, even after a large duck was sat in front of us, my studies of the Polish cuisine began to soften.  My heavy gut and beer-influenced head began to grow tired of food and drink, so I turned to the merriment around me and to the customs of the bride and groom.
     Occasionally, the band would stop playing, and the crowd would begin to chant something in Polish.  "Gorzko!  Gorzko!  Gorzko!  Gorzko!" which, Joanna explained, meant to kiss one another.  The bride and groom would finally comply, much to the cheering contentment of the audience.  At one point, they toasted a glass of champagne which they tossed over their shoulders.  Apparently, whichever glass shattered the most dictated who would be the boss of the relationship.  I'm sorry to say that I couldn't ascertain who won that contest.
     When an elegant song began to drift across the room, the dance floor cleared.  The bride and groom took up position in what was apparently their wedding dance.  They were performing a waltz.  By the gentle flow of her gown and the rhythmic guide that her husband's adept tempo suggested, the couple had practiced the routine time and time again.  And they performed it flawlessly.  I had never seen, at a wedding, such an eloquent and involved routine.  I felt honored to bear witness.
     The rest of the time, also unlike any wedding I had ever seen, the great majority of people were on the dance floor.  Aging from young children to the frail elderly, people were dancing and clapping to tunes that ranged from some traditional folk to some American rock 'n' roll.  I tried to partition my sights from the band, to the dance floor, to the head table, and to the audience.  Everyone seemed involved.
     More chants and customs erupted spontaneously, but my beer consumption wavers my memory a bit too much for recollection.  At one point, a large chain of people joined hands and circled the couple as they were chanting something joyfully.  The atmosphere was rustic, and I felt comfortable.
     The band played songs ranging from stuff I recognized to folk tunes that I had never heard before but still enjoyed.  At one point, they began to play "My Little Runaway".  Most of the English songs they had played had been lyrically correct.  I had been grading them on their English, though they hadn't realized it.  But, they were destroying this song which I found absolutely delightful.  "Mah litta Rah-way, rah, rah, rah, rahway!!"  The singers were very much in tune, and the music was perfect.  Overall, the band had done a terrific job; but, I somewhat recall those amusing lyrical attempts going unnoticed by pretty much everyone else.  Which was just as well, the song was still fun.
     The bride and groom began making their rounds.  They went from person to person, greeting them and making sure they were having a good time.  They stopped at our little corner where Joanna and Joanna joked and laughed about something in Polish.  The bride Joanna spoke some English and told me that it was nice to at last meet me.  I was glad that she made me feel welcome.
     Food and drink and dance continued, when, around midnight, I noticed that everyone was drinking vodka except me.  I wasn't feeling much pain, so I decided that, well, when in Rome...
     I took one of the empty shot glasses on the table and poured myself a swig of Pan Tadeusz.
     "Na zdrowie," I said raising my glass.  Automatically, Joanna, Arek, and Katie followed my lead.  I took the shot, as we would do in America.  They took a sip from their glasses.
     "You guys don't take the whole shot?" I asked.
     "Sometimes," Joanna said.
     "Here, we do another," Arek said as he, smiling, poured us another round of Polish vodka.
     "Na zdrowie," we all chorused as we all downed our glasses.
     "Are you American?"  A small, dark-haired girl interrupted our festivities.  She spoke with a British accent; so, of course, I assumed that she was from England.  I'd find out later that most English-speaking Poles have a British accent.  Obviously, I suppose, because England would be the closest English-speaking country and that's what they learn.
     Being rather inebriated but feeling rather famous, I responded with a smile.  "Yep."
     "I love the American accent," she said.  I wanted to respond with something clever in my charming, American accent; but, Mr. Tadeusz had grappled and bridled my wit.  I simply smiled.
     "Would you care to dance?" she asked me.  I felt a wave of anxiety at the prospect of dancing amid all of these traditional dances and strange customs.  I was about to decline when Joanna responded, "Yes.  Please take him to dance.  He has sat there all night."
     She grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor.
     One thing that I've never had much of a penchant for is dancing.  I just don't have much rhythm, and I always feel uncomfortable on the dance floor.  Fortunately, I had Pan Tadeusz to walk me through the steps.
     I remember neither the girl's name nor the songs that were played, but I was pretty sure that I was dancing like a rock star.  At last, the band stopped playing.  I was about to return to my seat when a song that I recognized started playing from the speakers.  Grease's "You're the One That I Want" as performed by John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John had begun to cheerfully encourage the dancers on the floor to quicken their pace and sway their hips.  Feeling like I was representing my country, I decided to stay on the floor for the remainder of this song.
     I felt pretty sure that I was moving as well as John Travolta ever had.  I twirled the girl this way and that like a pro.  On the couple of occasions that I nearly tripped I just pretended like it was part of the routine; certainly, no one could've noticed.  I was a dancing, American superstar!

Arek and I

     Joanna, Arek, and Katie joined us on the dance floor, and we stayed out there for what felt like hours.  By the time the band started playing again, we were exhausted and sweaty and ready for more alcohol.  We returned to our seats and shared some more of the Polish nectar.
     Joanna noticed her parents stepping outside for a breath of fresh air, so she suggested that we all do the same.  We did another shot, and then headed outside, bringing the vodka with us.
     Someone gave Arek a cigarette.  None of us smoked, but we were a bit fucked up so we decided to share it among the four of us.  Even Joanna's mother, Krystyna, came over to grab a quick drag.  She, too, was looking like she was having a good time.
     Roman, Joanna's father, was talking to a gentleman with wind-worn creases adorning his face and crow's feet at the edges of his eyes.  He seemed like a down-to-earth man with a friendly smile and a humble demeanor.  Via Joanna's translations, her father introduced the two of us.  I'm sorry to say that I don't remember his name, but he seemed like a genuinely good person.  Joanna strayed into another conversation, and I, holding a bottle of Pan Tadeusz in one hand and a shot glass in the other, was left alone with my father-in-law and my new acquaintance.
     The gentleman was holding a shot glass of his own.  He raised it as if to toast me, so I poured myself a shot and said, "na zdrowie".
     He echoed the sentiment, and we shared a drink.
     "Czy Amerykanie piją polską wódkę?" he asked.
     Of course, I speak very little Polish and Joanna wasn't there to translate; but, I discerned the words "American" and "vodka" from the statement.  I pieced together what he must have said, "This American can drink vodka like none other!"
     Happy to be recognized for my vodka-drinking ability, I poured myself another shot and demonstrated my vodka sovereignty with another shot.  I stumbled slightly, but recovered nicely.  He must have been impressed, because he looked humorously awe-struck.
     "Polska wódka jest najlepsza, czyż nie?  Wygląda że ci smakuje," my new friend remarked.  Once again, I pieced together the translation, "Poland is honored to have a guest with your vodka-drinking powers.  I am humbled by your amazing skill!"
     Attempting humility myself (and succeeding beyond measure), I downed another shot.
     "Quit drinking now!"  Joanna was approaching me.  She looked rather concerned for me; she obviously didn't know about my new-found ability.
     "Oh, don't worry, baby.  Everyshing is fine," I slurred.
     "No.  I mean it.  You should quit now."  My Polish wife didn't seem to understand that I was perfectly fine; I took another shot to illustrate.  Some spilled out of the bottle as I was pouring; she had distracted me.
     She walked away without saying anymore.  I turned to commune, again, with my new friend.  He and Joanna's father must have went back inside, because I didn't see them anywhere.
     I took a moment to breath in the night's life.  A low moon's reflection rippled with a dusting of stars on the lake's peaceful face; I marveled at how the sky looked different on this side of the world.  Clusters of people were scattered across the lot.  Some were sitting at the umbrella-covered tables; others were standing in merry factions, smoking cigarettes and drinking vodka.  The sounds of cheerful music and lively dancing from inside resonated and fueled my inner-child.  I took another shot.
     "Ok.  Shuttle bus is here.  We leaving now."  Joanna, unaware that I was just getting started, approached me with the announcement.
     "We're taking a rocket bus?" I jested.
     "I mean it, Duane.  Put down the bottle and the glass and come on!"
     When I saw the rest of Joanna's family climbing aboard the vehicle, I begrudgingly sat down the drinking mechanisms and staggered in their direction.  "Sheesh, I was jes' getting started," I complained.
     In the bus, I wavered down the aisle, past people that I didn't recognize, and to the back where the rest of our group was sitting.  I plopped into the seat next to Joanna and waited impatiently for the trek home to begin.
     Feeling rather stuffy, I loosened my tie and unfastened the top button of my shirt.  By the time the bus pulled out of the parking lot, I was burning up.  "What's wrong with you?" Joanna asked, apparently noticing my discomfort.
     "Arn'd shyu hot?" I inquired.  My head felt rather heavy; I leaned against the seat in front of me.
     "No.  It's not hot in here.  Just hang on.  We'll be home in twenty minutes," she suggested.
     I tried to look at the other people; I wanted to see if they, too, were afflicted by the heat.  Perhaps my wife was the only cold-natured passenger.  "Whensh shyu finly gon?" I stated very plainly.  My head slipped off its resting place, and I accidentally stomped my foot in an attempt to regain my balance.  It could've happened to anybody.
     "What are you talking about?  Quit it!  You're yelling."  My wife must have been very intoxicated.  She couldn't seem to understand anything I was trying to tell her.  I let my head rotate on my neck; that seemed to make me feel better.
     "Quit taking your clothes off!" Joanna scolded me in a hushed whisper.  I looked at myself and noticed that I had completely taken off my dress shirt, and I was in the process of pulling off my tee-shirt.  So?  Men can have their shirts off!
     "Whashya ben dyul?"  I complained.
     "I mean it, Duane.  Put your shirt back on!  We're almost home!"
     That's the last thing I remembered.

     When I woke up the next day, I knew I needed a bathroom.  I needed one quickly, but I also knew that getting to one was going to be a problem.  My head was pounding; my stomach was as sick as it had ever been; and, my whole body was sweating.
     As I fell onto the floor, I noticed that Joanna wasn't in bed with me.  As quickly as I could manage, I partially crawled and partially walked to the bathroom.  I made it just in time.  I won't share all of the details, but I can say that the next thirty minutes involved some multitasking and some clever timing.  The fact that I managed to pull off the feats without any mishaps is my only claim to success that day.
     "Duane, you ok in there?" Joanna's voice came through the bathroom door.
     "No," I weakly rasped.  "I need to go the emergency room."
     Joanna laughed.  "You'll be ok.  You're just hungover."
     "No.  I'm serious.  I need to go to the emergency room.  This is bad.  This is the worst hangover I've ever had in my life.  I think something's wrong."  I came out of the bathroom and somehow made my way back to the bed.
     Not longer after I laid down, Joanna's mother came in with a bowl of chicken broth.  She said something comforting in Polish and insisted I eat the soup.  The last thing I wanted to do right then was eat anything, but she insisted.  I leaned on an elbow and spooned a little into my mouth.  Joanna brought me some aspirin and a glass of water to down it with.  Then, I laid my head back down.
     "We're going to Joanna's house for the rest of the celebration," my wife informed me.
     "What??" I asked.  "The reception is still going on??"
     "Yes.  The next day, we resume the celebration at the bride's house.  It's ok, though.  You can stay here."
     I wouldn't have been able to go even if I would have wanted.  I couldn't believe these people.  I lay my head on the pillow and fell back asleep.

     When Joanna awoke me, I still had a hangover.  But now it was more like the kind of hangover that I was accustomed to.  I climbed out of bed and could see that the sun was setting; I had been in bed all day.  Joanna and her family had just gotten home from an afternoon of drinking and eating on Day Two of the wedding celebration.
     "What time did we get home last night?" I asked.
     "It was about 4:30.  Pretty early," Joanna said.
     I walked outside to the patio and sat on one of the comfortable chairs there.  I laid my head back and tried for just a moment to recall what had transpired the night before.  I couldn't remember much.  And maybe that was just as well.
     The realization that we would be having a Polish wedding here sank in.  I wasn't sure how I was going to manage it.  These people were crazy.
     For a couple of years, I wanted nothing to do with vodka.  The taste, the smell, the very idea of the stuff made me sick.  Pan Tadeusz particularly.
     I brought a bottle of Pan Tadeusz home with me and gave it to some friends of mine after that trip.  A few weeks later they called me.  "I don't know what's in that stuff," they said.  "But that's not normal vodka.  It fucked us up."  'I know,' was all I had said.  I know.

     -- Don't forget to "like" Parenting with Lightsabers here.
     -- Jump ahead and read about "Another Polish Wedding".
   
     
   
   
   

   
   

First Love

                                                     

89 Chevy Cavalier like my first car

                                                                 4/11/14 - "First Love"

     Blogger's Note:  You may have noticed at the end of "Alanaka Episode III - The Lost City of Paducah" that there was a solicit to read "Brookport".  You'll be seeing more solicits like these in future posts.  Here's my reasoning.
     Did you know that "Chapter 12 - On a Knee and a Whim" is now my second most viewed post ever?  "Brookport", as many of you know, has the championship and is basically untouchable.  I didn't solicit the twelfth installment as though it was a new chapter; I just encouraged people to see how I proposed to Joanna.  In the Blogger's Note, I told people not to worry about getting caught up; they'd get the gist regardless.  So, I think some new people did.  They read the chapter; and, maybe, just maybe, they navigated back to the start and read it from the beginning.  How do I know this?  Because viewership from past chapters suddenly spiked.  After adding the links at the bottom of each chapter, they were able to navigate along the path more easily.
     After I linked the chapters in our "How We Met" story, I noticed a couple of things.  For one, I was reading a post on my blog on my cellphone during my lunch break at work; I sometimes go back and "double" proofread a recent post.  I usually find something that I missed during the first pass.  I noticed that the links that show up along the edge of a post on my desktop's monitor wasn't there.  In fact, my smart phone's layout was quite different from my desktop's.  I believe that a large portion of my audience reads this blog on their smart phones, so I want to make it smart phone friendly.
     After a couple of days, I had several new faces approach me.  "I read your whole blog last night!" was something I heard from more than one person.  Of course, this made me happy; but, I secretly doubted that the average person could read my entire blog in one sitting.  You should see the binder that contains my whole blog.  It's the size of two good-sized books.  What I believe they meant was that they read the entire "How We Met" story.  They were unaware that there was more to my blog because they were reading it on a smart phone and didn't see all the friendly links that I see.  When they got to the end of the story, they thought that was it.
     So, I've decided to add a solicit at the end of every post with the goal of getting people to try other features of Parenting with Lightsabers.  I've linked together all of the Flashback episodes, and I plan to do something similar with my random posts.  Hopefully, when I'm done, people will find navigating everything offered here just a little easier.
     Now, on to today's Flashback episode...
     I toyed with this one for quite some time.  I kept pushing it aside, because it's a little uncomfortable to write.  I was talking to Jeremy not long ago.  We agreed that some of the best writings are the ones that provoke the reader; they make us all just a little bit uncomfortable.  My heart yearned for someone besides Joanna?  Everyone has a past "someone", but it's not really kosher to say that.  Should I write about a previous love interest that's not Joanna?
     So, I asked Joanna.  "How would you feel if I wrote about my first love?"  She said, "write whatever you want, just do the dishes asshole."
     And now that I have her blessing I will proceed.  Maybe when it's all over, we can all breathe again...
     Listening to:  Mason Jennings "Darkness Between the Fireflies"

     When I turned 16, I filled out job applications anywhere I saw a "Help Wanted" sign.  I knew that having my own car was going to require money, and I wanted my own money.  I took the first job offer I got which was washing dishes at Chong's.
     A couple of months later, I'd grown tired of working until midnight tackling dirty dishes with a discrepant crew of misfits.  When I got a phone call one afternoon to come in for a job interview at Dandy's Yogurt in the mall, I jumped at the opportunity.
     When I arrived, three women sat in a semi-circle at a plastic table in plastic chairs.  One chair was empty; and, the largest, oldest lady encouraged me to sit there.  She was a rather large woman, and her chair legs bowed somewhat as she sat puffing away on a cigarette.  She had large, dark hair; and, I suspected her appearance wasn't something she put very high on her priority list.  For some reason, she reminded me of Roseanne Barr.
     "Hi, I'm Sherry."  She introduced herself with a raspy voice that was somewhat intimidating.  The other two girls, apparently much younger than her, smiled at me.
     "Hi, I'm Duane," I responded.
     "Oh?  It says Harold on your application," Sherry countered.
     "My first name is Harold; everyone knows me as Duane," I explained.
     "Ok, well this is my sister Muffy and her friend Patty.  We all work here; I'm the manager," Sherry began.
     Muffy looked just like her name.  She was a squat, chubby girl that, despite a lighter tint to her hair, looked like a miniature version of Sherry.  Muffy sat dangling her flip flops just above the floor wearing a big, rosy smile like she was privy to the best joke she'd ever heard.
     Patty, a study in contrast, had teased her hair so high that I wondered if she was hiding something behind her.  She had quite a womanly body; and, if not for her young face which suggested that she wasn't much older than me, she could have passed for a woman of her thirties.  She rarely smiled, and her dulled expression led me to the conclusion that she wasn't known for her cognitive abilities.
     "Well, Duane, we're going to hire two part-time employees today.  We need a little extra help, and we're looking for someone with good people skills.  The position is about twenty hours a week, and it pays minimum wage:  $3.35/hour."
     Sherry didn't convey much emotion during her oration, and Patty just sat there dreadfully afflicted with boredom.  Only Muffy supplied any evidence of life; her rosy, cheerful smile felt out of place during the routine interview.
     "Well, if you want to walk around the mall, I still have a few interviews left.  Come back here in about an hour, and I'll let you know whether or not you got the job," Sherry finished.   I expressed my gratitude, and meandered around for the designated amount of time.
     When I came back to the interesting trio, I found a fourth person there.  A girl about my age with shoulder-length, dark hair that was modestly teased above her forehead as was the style.  Her blue eyes and strawberry lips suggested that she never wanted for attention.
     "Duane, this is Bridget," Sherry introduced.  I smiled politely, and she smiled back.  "We've decided to hire you two.  If you can start on Thursday, be here at 4:30, and we'll train you together."
     For a brief moment, I considered telling Sherry that I was scheduled to work at Chong's on Thursday; but, after a succinct consultation with my sensibilities, I decided that the choice of training with the cute girl or working late in the grimy smell of soapy water and nicotine would be one of life's easier decisions.
     "Sounds great," I smiled with my response and left with a cheerful buoyancy.
     On Thursday, after the dreaded call to Chong's to give my impromptu resignation, I drove to the mall to begin training for an after-school career in the frozen yogurt industry.  I shoved UB40 into the tape deck and jammed to "Red, Red Wine" on the way; because, it indeed, make ya feel so fine.
     Muffy and Bridget were the only two there when I arrived.  Muffy said she'd be in charge of training us, and I had the oddest inclination that she was going to break out in song and dance like a scene from Grease or Cry-Baby.  She might ping-pong from one shoulder to the next in a musical explanation of how to pull the handle on the machine that distributes the cold dessert.  I wouldn't know the routine, but I could snap to the beat.
     Muffy quickly guided us through the process of serving the customers.  Weighing fudge, distributing rainbow sprinkles, and wiping down the counter were all part of our duties.  She went over the nuances of breaking down one of the machines, cleaning it, and changing the flavors.
     "You can eat as much frozen yogurt as you'd like; but, if you want extra toppings, you'll have to pay for those," she explained with a charismatic, Muffy smile.
     "Oh," Bridget and I chorused as we mechanically aspired to reach her level of enthusiasm.
     "Now, when we're slow like we are now, what we should do is make waffle cones," Muffy cheerfully explained.  "Even if we don't sell them all, they're cheap to make, and the smell they make attracts business."
     Bridget and I gathered around her as she demonstrated how to properly make a waffle cone.  She'd pour some batter on the waffle grill, flip it, and release the lid.  A cone-shaped wand was then used to roll up the waffle into the desired shape.
     "Ok.  So, I'll leave you two to take turns making waffle cones while I do some work in the back.  If there's any guests, try to help them.  If you can't, or if you have any questions, just come and get me."  I thought she was going to skip to the back; but, thankfully, she walked.
     Bridget and I were left alone to practice.  I would make one, and she would make one.  After a couple, we had gotten the process down pretty well.  I didn't really see a need in continuing, but I didn't want to shun my duty.  Bridget and I didn't talk much at first, but I suspected she felt the same way.
     Suddenly, she began to make two in a row.
     "Hey!  Leggo my Eggo!" I insisted, using the slogan from the popular commercial.
     Bridget's laugh was bubbly and engaging.  I hadn't heard it before then, and I felt a hungry desire to hear it again.  I rummaged through my arsenal of clever jokes and witty lines and prepared them for deployment.
     "Interesting crew here, huh?" I approached our opening dialogue with some routine banter.
     "Yeah..."  Bridget raised her eyebrows and smiled on one side of her mouth.  Her reply trailed away as she focused on waffle-cone making.
     "The first time I met Sherry, I asked her what flavors of fudge she had.  She said, 'chocolate, peanut butter, and rocky road.'  I said, 'do you have laryngitis?'  She said, 'no, just chocolate, peanut butter, and rocky road.'"
     Bridget spiraled into one of those frustrating laughs.  You know the kind?  The ones that you don't really want to loose; but, when it comes, it grows and inflates to the point that it becomes larger than it probably should be.  She doubled over with that bubbly laugh, so I took the cone-making reins.  Success!
     With Bridget laughing hysterically and me beaming with triumph, the sound of someone clearing their throat behind us interrupted our mirth.
     A large boy about our age stood at the register wearing a jersey.  He was a head taller than me, and a scowl was plastered on his face that appeared at home.  Bridget straightened as soon as she saw him.
     "Oh."  Bridget's laugh abruptly stopped.  She hurried to open a cabinet door beneath the register and rummaged through her purse until she produced a set of keys that she gave to him.  He took them angrily and stomped away.
     After she returned to our duty, her demeanor had transformed.  She looked serious and distant.
     "Boyfriend?" I asked her.
     "Yeah..."  Her answer trailed away as if she was trying to distract the subject and replace it with anything else.  I didn't pursue the subject.
     "You two are doing great!"  Muffy approached us wearing dimples on either side of her chubby face.
     Bridget and I smiled politely before she began to teach us how to use the cash register.  The afternoon rolled on in such a fashion; and, by the end of the night, she had pretty much gotten us trained.
     The next couple of months rolled along.  Usually Bridget and I worked together at least once a week, sometimes more.  Even though I knew that she had a boyfriend, I still enjoyed our shifts together.  Muffy was too easy to amuse, and Patty was too difficult.  But, Bridget was just right.  Not to mention, she was much more pleasant on the eyes than the other two.
     I was beginning to suspect that Bridget felt the same way.  She seemed a little more lively when I showed up, and she began to exert her own brand of humor to compliment my own.  Work didin't feel like work when she was there.  We began to learn a little about each other, and we began to talk.
     Her boyfriend's name was Chris.  He was a senior at Tilghman High School.  And he was a football player.  And he had a new Camaro.
     One night, Bridget approached me when no one else was around.  She said that Chris was going to a concert the next night.  She wanted to know if I would like to hang out with her and Muffy.  She wanted to know if I knew of a place that we could chill.
     The idea took me by surprise, but it was a pleasant surprise.  The idea of hanging out with Bridget away from work and away from Chris was rather appealing.  I quickly rummaged through my head for a place that we could go.
     "My friend just moved up by Chicago," I explained.  "He lived in a mobile home way out in the country.  It's empty now, and I know how to get inside."
     "Ok.  Let's go there," she said.  She turned away and busied herself before I could elaborate.  I was excited, but something told me that the subject, for some reason, was off-limits.  All I knew was that we were supposed to meet at Dandy's Yogurt at 7pm the next night.
   
     The next night couldn't come quickly enough.  School dragged; and, later, once I'd finally gotten home, I sat twiddling my thumbs until seven o'clock rolled around.
     At Dandy's, Bridget and Muffy were standing near the register talking to Patty when I came through the fire escape door across the hall.  Most of the mall employees, I discovered, came and went through the fire escape doors; I enjoyed knowing about and using these "secret" corridors.
     Bridget looked amazing.  She was wearing make-up and some jeans that hypnotized me.  Even Muffy had polished herself up.  I felt out of place wearing some stone-washed jeans and a Snoopy tee-shirt.  The comic-strip dog was wearing sunglasses, and the words "Cool On Demand" were written across the top.  I wanted to run home and change.
     "Everyone ready?" Muffy asked after we'd all gotten the formalities out of the way.  Bridget and I nodded, so we said 'goodbye' to Patty and made our way back outside.
     In the parking lot, Muffy insisted on driving.  I told her I didn't mind since we were going to be in my neck of the woods, but she insisted.  She drove a rather large Olds Cutlass; Bridget sat in the passenger seat; and, I relayed directions to where we were going from the back.
     The mobile home sat on a remote hill surrounded by trees.  Muffy parked the car and turned off the engine.  The conversation died as silence seemed to permeate through the secluded place.  We got out of the car and stood there for a moment.  I suddenly felt this odd feeling like I hadn't chosen a good place, like they had something else in mind.
     "If you all wanna go somewhere else, we can," I offered.  They just shook their heads.  "No, this is fine," Bridget said.
     So, I led them to the back and demonstrated how the latch on the sliding door could be manipulated open.  Inside, the place was empty; there weren't even chairs to sit on.  The utilities were, of course, shut off.  We hadn't brought anything with us, not even beer; so, once inside, we just sat on the living room floor.  I felt an uncomfortable vibe that I couldn't quite put my finger on; I knew neither how to identify the awkward lapse of harmony nor how to disarm its oppressive occupation.
     As the three of us sat blundering for conversation, I took note of the over-dressed girls.  I wondered how late they wanted to stay here.  The room was already quite dark as the sun had fallen beneath the tree line.  Muffy was looking even more uncomfortable than I was, which was quite a feat.  Why didn't we just leave?
     "Well, I think I'm going to go ahead and take off.  If you two don't mind, I'll just pick you two up early in the morning," Muffy declared.
     What was this?  She was leaving us to spend the night here?  She looked perfectly serious.  What would we do for an entire night?  Muffy lived all the way in Ballard County; she was going to drive all the way here in the morning?
     Before I could voice any questions or any concerns, Bridget responded, "that's fine."
     Suddenly, I had an inclination.  I'd be left alone.  all night.  with no way to leave.  and no where to go.  with Bridget.  "Yeah, that's fine," I said casually.
     "Ok, see you in the morning."  Muffy jingled her keys as she pulled them out of her purse.  She closed the sliding door behind her.  I stood and watched out the front window as she climbed into her car, started it, and pulled away.
     As the sound of her car faded into the distance, the last remnants of sunlight seemed to follow.  Darkness claimed anything familiar and cast my field of vision into oblivion.  We were alone.  I turned to see how Bridget was faring.
     "Hold me."  Her meek voice emanated from somewhere in the blackness where she had been sitting.
     I walked over to her, sat beside her, and put my arm around her.  She leaned her head against my shoulder, and we stayed that way for some time, neither of us saying anything.
     When, at last, her head lifted from my shoulder, I could feel her looking at me.  I turned to meet her gaze; but, instead, I met her lips.
     Kisses can spark; they can awaken a man from a dismal fatigue and inspire a vigor that just moments ago hadn't existed.  But first kisses?  They saturate and float and galvanize and chisel and hurt and heal every aspect of our being.  I had kissed other girls before Bridget, but I hadn't really kissed them.  I hadn't really kissed them.  The entire universe was a fleeting idea next to the power of that momentous connection, and I never, ever wanted it to end.
     After a wonderfully timeless moment, she pulled away to gauge my consent.  Once she recognized that she most definitely had it, we began again.  And so it went for a long, immeasurable time.
     She laid down, and I followed her to the floor.  Slowly, I unfastened one of the buttons on her shirt, searching her eyes for permission.  She didn't object, so I continued the descending trek between kisses.  When, finally, the only thing between me and adolescent conquest was a lacy, white bra that had a small ribbon in the middle.
     I expertly reached behind her back and coolly prepared to unfasten the garment.  "It fastens in the front," she whispered.
     I reconfigured my position and tried, again, to detach what surely had to be a simple hook and loop mechanism.  I pushed and pulled and pushed and twisted and yanked, hoping that the solution to the puzzle would reveal itself in the process.  I didn't want to admit my ignorance, but the fucking thing just wouldn't unlatch.
     She smiled at the hopeless endeavor.  Mercifully, she demonstrated the technique but left herself covered.
     Fancying myself a romantic, I patiently edged away the fabric between kissing and petting.  When at last the secret was revealed, I cupped my first breast in the palm of my hand and bookmarked the taste of a girl.
     And so the night went.  The wee hours of morning were approaching, and our energy was beginning to fade.  I laid next to her feeling a tragic desire to unleash the pinnacle of sentiments.  Fortunately, I bridled that bitch and spoke, instead, of her.
     "I don't understand," I began, treading carefully.  "Are you and Chris still..."
     "Yes," she whispered.  She sounded sad.  Just above her, a curtain-less window spilled moonlight onto her face.  I drank every last drop.
     "Does... does he hit you?" I asked her.
     She paused for a moment to look at me.  Slowly, she nodded.  Slowly, I began to understand.  I wrapped her up carefully, then.  I placed her in my heart and decided that she would be safe there.
     The silence was painful, and I began to say something else.  She placed her index finger against my lips and shushed me.  We laid there, just she and I, until a moonbeam peppered us with slumber.
     The next morning, Muffy arrived as promised; the magic night was over.
   
     The next few weeks were both heaven and hell.  I called Bridget nearly every night.  We'd talk for at least two hours, sometimes more.  We talked about work and school.  I would tell her about places that I wanted to take her like Eleven Point River and the Mad Dog Shack and the Pines.  We would try and make plans to meet.  Sometimes, rarely, we actually would.  But, usually, she couldn't or wouldn't.
     Muffy and Patty knew what was going on, but they kept our secret.  We would carry on in the way that young lovers do.  They just worked around us.
     Bridget told me that she was going to be breaking up with Chris; she just needed to find the right time.  Sometimes, she would toy with the idea of running away.  Maybe move to Nashville and just stay there.  I had told her that I would go with her if she ever wanted me to.  I had meant it.
     After a couple of months, we had a future together planned.  All I had to do was be patient.  She was going to break up with Chris.  She was.  She just needed to find the right time.
     Sometimes, Chris would come in to Dandy's Yogurt to talk to Bridget.  I sometimes felt like he knew something was up; but, if he did, he never let on that he did.  I'd pay attention to how Bridget would talk to him; she was short and to the point.  I was always happy when he left.
     One night, Bridget and I were working alone.  We were responsible for closing that night, and I was enjoying one of our rare times alone together.  The time skipped by way too quickly, and I wished it would move slower.  After the closing duties were completed and the register had been counted down, all we had left to do was lock up and leave.
     Bridget zipped the bank bag containing the deposit, pushed back the office chair, and stood.  We were in the back, and I was reaching to flip off the lights when she placed her hand on my arm.  I turned, expecting her to say that we had forgotten something, but I was met with a kiss.
     We embraced in another exciting, improvised caress.  As my hands began creeping up her shirt, I began to wonder how far this might go.  I pulled her closer and opened my eyes...
     ...and standing right behind her was Chris.
     I didn't know how long he had been standing there, but I pulled away.  Just a moment later, Bridget, too, saw him.  He stood between us and the only exit.
     "What are you doing!?!" Bridget started yelling at him.  The only thing that I could think about was how she had told me that he hit her.  I wasn't sure how I might slay this dragon if he decided to unleash a swiping blow to our mutual interest, but I knew that I would try.  I mentally inventoried the cans of chocolate syrup and caramel sauce.  If necessary, I could start chucking those at him.  Also, a mop was within reach.  It looked flimsy; but, if things got serious, I could jab at him with it.
     But he didn't move.  He just stared at us.
     "I said, what are you doing!?!  You can't be back here!" Bridget repeated.  Yeah, get him with rules and regulations.  Whatever worked.
     Still, he didn't move.
     An uncomfortable time elapsed.  Bridget continued yelling at him, and I began to feel like I needed to give them some space.  She needed to tell him about our plans and doing so with me standing there didn't seem optimal.  I slipped past Bridget and slid by him.
     I half-expected him to punch me when I walked by.  He didn't, but he followed me to the other side of the counter.  I turned around to face him.
     What I saw in his eyes surprised me.  He didn't look like a killer, or an abusive girlfriend-beater, or a bad ass.  He looked hurt.  He looked like he was about to cry.
     I couldn't keep his gaze.  I stepped backward, unsure what to do or what to say.  I felt like an asshole at that moment.  I wasn't supposed to be the villain; I was supposed to be the hero.  I was supposed to be protecting her from this beast, but he didn't look like a beast right then.  For the first time, the realization that I was the guy that had been messing around with his girlfriend struck me.
     Bridget grabbed his arm and led him across the hallway into the fire escape.  I considered for a moment to follow them, but decided against it.  He had shown no signs of violence, and I needed to give them space for the moment.
     I finished closing up the store.  I locked the gate and stood there for a moment.  I wondered if they had left.
     I opened the fire escape door and started to enter the corridor when I saw them in there.  They didn't see me.
     I saw Bridget slap him.  Not really hard, but hard enough.  "You know I love you," she told him.  "It was just a stupid mistake..."
     I gently closed the door, wishing I could un-hear what I had just heard.
     I walked through the mall, to another fire escape, and circled around to my car.  I drove home trying to convince myself that she was just telling him whatever she needed to.  The fact of the matter was that he knew about us now.  Our secret was out, and choices needed to be made.
   
     The next day at school, I didn't think 3 o'clock was ever going to come.  I knew that Bridget was scheduled to work that afternoon, and I planned to go there after school.
     I was doubting everything that day.  She had told him that I was a mistake.  She had told me that she was going to break up with him.  Truth had lodged somewhere in all the deceit and was about to be forced out.  I was ready and eager to claim my share of it.
     I walked into Dandy's Yogurt suddenly unsure of how to act or what to say.  I knew that I looked like an idiot, but I had spent the last few hours daydreaming that she was going to choose me.  'He's gone now.  It's just you and I.  No more hiding.  No more pretending.  It's just you and I now.'
     "What are you doing here?"  I heard her sarcastic voice before I saw her face.  The words hurt and angered me.  She knew that I'd be coming.  She was as anxious to lose me as I had been to see her.  When I saw her expression of sarcasm and disgust, I didn't recognize her.  I was a fool.  I was a stupid fucking idiot that had believed that lies were only in stories about spies and treachery.  I wanted her to see how angry I was, how hurt I was; but, I just paused for a brief moment to assess her.
     For a wonder, no one else was around.  She defiantly looked at me, daring me to say something.  I obviously should have known that this was all a ruse; I should have known when the show was over; I should have known that I was just a diversion.
     I wanted to tell her how horrible she was, how cruel she was.  I wanted to pretend like I wasn't even phased.  But after I saw all that I needed to see, I turned around.  I never said anything.  Not a single word.  I must have looked shamefully pathetic as I hung my head and walked away.
     After I heard the fire escape door shut behind me, the tears came.  I felt pretty certain that men weren't supposed to cry like that, but I did.  I positioned myself so that the few people that I saw in the parking lot couldn't see my face; and, when I got in my car, I let it all go.
     I started the car and drove away.
     I drove all night that night.  I drove all over southern Illinois, through old, gravelly back roads and along long stretches of highway.  Just after midnight, a misty drizzle shrouded the world appropriately.  I drove into Paducah, ambling through the lonely streets.  At one point, I was driving on Broadway through the intervals of stop-and-go lights; a slow and steady haze sketched through the street lights like a flowing gossamer curtain.  I was stopped at a red light that didn't want to change, but I didn't care.  I just sat there.  When it did turn, I didn't go.  I let it turn red again, and I waited some more.  I went after it had turned green a second time.  Nobody cared.
     I considered everything that night.  Maybe tomorrow, I could go to work, and she would say that she was sorry.  She was confused.  She did love me, and everything would be fine again.
     But I knew.  Everything made sense now.  Hindsight is 20/20.
     But she said she was going to break up with him.
     She said I wasn't like other guys.
     We were going to go canoeing.
     We talked all night.
     She was supposed to be the one.
     I cried more that night than I care to admit.  I was a virgin to heartbreak, and I didn't know how to deal with it.  Every song I heard on the radio reminded me of her, and I knew that I would never, ever, ever get her out of my head, out of my heart.
     But eventually I did.
     I didn't work at Dandy's Yogurt much longer after that.  I got another job, but that's a story for another day.  We didn't talk much when we had to work together.  I kept my distance, and she kept hers.  I pretended like everything was just fine.
     She took longer to shake off than she should have, but that's because she was my first love.  I didn't know it then, but she was.
     And I don't even know for sure if it was love, but, instead, my ideal of love.
     For love is stained glass.  We are born with this perfect, unadulterated ideal of love.  It is the perfect hue, for it is ours in every way.  Light animates it and amplifies it, and we want to display it.  It is beautiful.
     Then, it shatters.  We are introduced not to the image of love, but to a spectrum of emotion.  Our glass falls and shatters into a thousand pieces, and we feel like we could never piece it together again.
     The first time is the worst.  We haven't a clue how to glue ourselves together again.  How can we realign all of the pieces?  What should we use to hold everything together?  Some pieces are missing.  Some pieces are gone forever.
     But slowly and surely, we do.  We borrow a piece from a friend.  It's not the same color, but it will work.  We use an adhesive that our parents used.  We learn how their hearts are welded, and we try to mimic their technique.  We shave pieces and cut them to fit.
     And we walk around feeling like a broken toy.  Paul Simon wrote, "losing love is like a window through your heart  Everybody sees you're blown apart.  Everybody hears the wind blow."  That's how we feel.
     And we break again.  And again.  And again and again and again.  Until we start to learn how to fix it and guard against the agony with a sharp sense of humor or an angry demeanor or a stony ward of indifference.
     Before long, we are a mosaic of glass.  Stained glass.  With a rainbow of colors so disparate and contrasting that we're certain that no one could ever love us again.  It is so very different from the perfect hue that we're born with.
     But, then one day, someone does.  Someone comes along and loves how you've pieced yourself back together.  They love how the blues are tangled into the yellows and the reds were pieced with the purples.  So, you let them peek into the holes, into the cracks where they see you.  Every little broken piece of you.  And they don't mind that you're broken, because they're broken, too.
     And if you overlap her shards with his gaps and you piece his cuts with her edges, you find an artwork that you never realized existed.  And your ideal of love becomes so very silly.  So very distant.  Because, this is love.
     Love isn't perfect.  It is a mosaic of mistakes and fixes  Of failures and successes.  Of hearts and bones.
     It is stained glass.

     -- If you enjoyed this, try other Flashback episodes, starting with "Brookport"
     -- Also, please like my Parenting with Lightsabers page on Facebook found here.
     -- Or continue with some more Flashback episodes like "David Stories"
   
   
       
   

   
   
   
     

Alanaka Episode III - The Lost City of Paducah

                                   

                                       3/26/14 - "Alanaka Episode III - The Lost City of Paducah"

     Blogger's Note:  Business first.  If you haven't read episodes I and II, then I'd recommend reading those first.  Click here for the first installment and follow the links at the bottom to get caught up.  Or if you just missed the second installment, click here.
     I want to say thanks to everyone that reads my Alanaka stories.  I know they're not my most popular, but they're my personal favorites.  For me, Alanaka is freedom.  I don't have to worry or strain.  I can just have fun.  And I like that.
     My "Flashback" episodes, for example, are very difficult for me to write.  They require some TLC.  They are about real people and real events, so introducing new characters in a way that doesn't bruise an ego or belittle a person is burdensome.  Sometimes, I just want a break.
     I like plotting this story.  I considered for a while to just quit publishing these stories, but I decided against it.  I like going on these adventures with my future granddaughter.  So, what I'm going to do is make a compromise.
     I'm going to take Alanaka out of a strict rotation.  I'm going to use her when I personally need her.
     Now, I have just one more thing to say about the subject.  I can't help but wonder why some people don't care for Alanaka.  One reason may be that she is a work of science fiction in a blog that has thus far been about real people and feelings.  Maybe she doesn't belong.  Maybe some people just don't care for science fiction.  I can't fault people for their tastes.
     But, I have another fear.  I fear that some people don't care for Alanaka because the story is a little corny.  Futuristic technology and prankster children belong in the "Teen" aisle at the local book store.  Seriously, she's on a mission to find an old cell phone?  Get real, Duane.
     Now, if that's the problem, then, I can assure you that I am real.  I can't build a story without a foundation.  No one could possibly know the melody that I'm trying to play here.  Not yet.  So please, "regular" readers especially, stick around.  After a couple of more Episodes, you will begin to see the picture that I am trying to paint here.  Do you trust me?  Because, I think you should...
     Listening to:  The Lumineers "Submarines"

     "Oh, geez, I can't believe I'm asking this.  Who is Harry Ballsack?"  Alanaka wore a disgusted, exasperated grimace as she assessed her brother and his friend.
     "Not who.  What."  Mason postured.
     "Ok.  So what is a Harry Ballsack?"  Alanaka slapped her forehead a moment after the words left her mouth.
     Mason didn't hesitate.  "He's my RX-47!"
     "First off, I thought they quit making the 47 model a hundred years ago!  And secondly, what are you doing with an Automatronic?"
     "He was my mom's," Mason explained.  "When having an Automatronic started becoming unpopular,  she stored him in the basement.  I was down there playing one day when I saw him.  I asked mom about him, and she said that I could have him.  He has a bad drive in his neck and a bad initiator module, but once you get him started, he'll run just fine."
     "Him?  Don't you mean it?" Alanaka prodded.
     "Harry's my friend," Mason insisted.
     Alanaka rolled her eyes and looked at Boston who appeared neutral in the matter.  "Well, go get him," she acceded.
     Mason, happy to be of use, sprinted away, slamming the back door closed when he left.
     Boston, arms folded, addressed his sister after silence settled on the room.  "Do you think this is a good idea?"
     "Boston, we could be heroes!  As long as we stay together, the Skip Rope should keep our PIB's operational.  With an Automatronic pilot, Dad's Corvette should be able to make the trip to Lake New Madrid and back in a few hours.  Mom might not even know that we were gone.  If she does, then she'll be ok with it once we tell her what we were doing and that we got our PIB's to work," Alanaka insisted.
     Boston didn't seem as confident.  He didn't object, but he walked away with a seeming air of uncertainty.  "I'm going to pack some things.  If we're going to do this, I'd suggest you do the same," Boston said to his sister as he walked away.
     Alanaka took his advice.  She ran upstairs, grabbed her backpack, and started filling it with a spare change of clothes and some various camping tools that might come in handy.  She assumed that their PIB's would work once they were free of the inhibiting signal's radius, but she wasn't absolutely certain of that.  She decided that she should prepare for the possibility that they would have to rely on the Skip Rope's help.  Staying in its proximity could prove tricky, so she would plan for the worst and hope for the best.
     After she finished getting everything she needed from her bedroom, she headed to the fold-out ladder that led to the attic.  Her head was still invested in those long-ago musings, and she could use some reading material for their journey.
     Climbing into the dark loft, she had this unsettling, eerie feeling like something sinister was watching her from the shadowy corners.  She had never felt real fear before and didn't know how to identify it.  Without her "tripod" of Skip Rope participants, her PIB was inoperative.  She couldn't activate its revealing light.  She couldn't use it to call for help.  It wasn't going to protect her from a bad fall or from bumping her head.  The carpet of unrealized dangers was still unrolling; she didn't entirely comprehend the significance of her PIB's malfunction.
     Her heart was pounding more than it ever had as she reached into the wooden box and past the enchanting shoes to the velvet-covered book that she had left there.  She quickly grabbed it, anxious to be out of the spooky attic and back with other people.  Being disconnected from the rest of the world was... lonely.  On her way back to the hatch, she grabbed a couple of New Israel daggers from the case they had discovered.  Knives had a flurry of uses and might come in handy on their little adventure.
     She ran back downstairs to find her brother wearing the Australian hat that he'd gotten while they were on vacation in Sydney.  Boston looked quite dashing wearing it.  She smiled at him, glad to see that he, too, was becoming enthralled in the spirit of adventure.
     A knock at the back door announced Mason's return.  Boston opened it wide to allow his friend and the Automatronic entry.  Alanaka's eyes rolled when she saw it.
     "Harry Ballsack" was about six foot tall.  The RX-47 had a humanoid appearance in that it had two arms, two legs, and a head that rotated back and forth, sometimes spinning completely around.  A green stripe had been clumsily painted over its cylindrical dome like a mohawk.  Alanaka knew what that was about.
     "Mason?  Seriously?  Did you really have to paint it to look like Delfry Bauldron?" she prodded.  Delfry Bauldron was a pompous, young pop star that had been topping the charts for the last three years.  Half the boys in her school were currently sporting a green mohawk just like Delfry Bauldron's.  His current hit, "Starship Lover", was a loathsome techno number that played the same rhythm over and over; she had heard it so many times that the sound of it made her want to throw up.  She hated everything about the overblown pop star, but Mason didn't try to hide the fact that he was the singer's biggest fan.
     "I'm your Starship Lover; you'd better believe.  Take my hand, girl 'cause we're about to leave..." Mason responded by singing a line from the deplorable hit.  Alanaka gagged.
     "Ok!  Ok!  That's enough!  Why does its head keep spinning back and forth like that?" she asked.
     "He's got a bad drive in his neck.  Doesn't matter, though.  His visual sensors and his databox are located in his chest.  He's also got a bad initiator module, like I said.  If you shut him down, he's hard to turn back on.  But as long as he's running, he's fine.  That's why I usually just leave him on."
     "Well, if we're gonna do this, let's do it," Boston interjected.  He started heading up the stairs to the second story without waiting for a response.  Alanaka grabbed her backpack and the Skip Rope before following his lead.  "C'mon Harry," Mason instructed his Automatronic as they filed in the rear.  A whirring of gears could be seen as Harry's stride revealed vents in its joints.  "Affirmative," the RX-47 complied.
     Upstairs, Boston entered the door that led to the garage.  He punched the button that operated the dome, and it rotated open.  The three adventurers, four if Harry counted, stood on the open-air platform.
     Stars winked in and out of existence as a few post-Tantrum clouds seasoned the night sky.  The smell and feel of the damp air energized Alanaka with vigor and courage.  The view of the Seattle skyline from their house was always breathtaking, but tonight it was tinged with uncertainty and danger.  Seattle's sky tower loomed monstrously above the city; the Space Needle looked like a dwarf next to it.  Zephyrs usually darted this way and that way across the sky; but, tonight, few hovered across the panoramic scene.  Many people were asleep at this late hour; others must have decided that staying home would be wise in lieu of the circumstances.  For the very, very first time in her life, Alanaka felt alive.
     "Alanaka, turn on the Skip Rope," her brother advised her.  "If we're going to do this, we need to leave it on and stay together.  As long as our force shields are working, we should be ok."
     His sister replied by switching it on with her thumb.  "Triangulating PIBs.  PIBs synchronized."
     "Harry, can you pilot this Corvette?" Boston asked the Automatonic as he motioned to his father's sleek, red Zephyr that was parked in front of them.  His dad must have just waxed it, because it was shining.
     "He's programmed to only respond to me," Mason explained.  "Harry, can you pilot this Corvette?"
     "Affirmative.  I am licensed for speeds up to Mach 1.5," Harry replied.  Its face was a black screen that displayed two yellow eyes that periodically "blinked" and a "mouth" formed from pixels.  Its deep, robotic voice came from a speaker near its digital mouth that animated movement when the Automatronic spoke.
     The three children looked at one another with one last look of mandate.  They each held firm; so, Boston the eldest, nodded to Mason.
     "Harry, pilot us to Lake New Madrid as fast as you're licensed," Mason ordered the RX-47.
     "Affirmative."
     The cast climbed into the Corvette.  Harry took the driver's seat.  Mason rode shotgun as he would be the one giving the Automatronic instructions.  Boston and Alanaka jumped in the back.
     When the Zephyr's engine whirred to life, Harry's head began spinning.  "I wish he'd stop that and watch what he's doing!" Alanaka complained.
     "Like I said, his visual sensors are in his chest.  He is watching what he's doing even if it doesn't seem like it," Mason clarified.  Alanaka rolled her eyes before sitting back in her seat.  At Mach 1.5, the trip to Lake New Madrid would take about two hours.  She might as well relax.
     Harry grabbed the steering controls.  Its hands had two large "fingers" and one opposing "thumb" that it used to grasp.  The Zephyr began climbing into the night sky.  The city's lights looked surreal and unusual from here.  Once the Corvette attained the needed altitude and was pointed in the right direction, Harry throttled.  The acceleration pushed the children into their seats until they reached cruising velocity.
     Once the vehicle attained its traveling speed, Alanaka took the velvet-covered book from her backpack and began leafing through its pages.
     "PIB, how was Lake New Madrid formed?" she asked her Personal Interface Bracelet.
     "Lake New Madrid was formed after a series of earthquakes in the 21st Century destroyed dams and shifted the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers.  Over a large span of time, southern Illinois and western Kentucky began to fill with water.  The local population began to relocate to sponsored sister cities.  Seattle adopted much of Paducah, KY as the Climate Authority, founded about the same time, made much of the climate in the Northwest similar to the New Madrid region."
     "That's what I thought!" Alanaka proclaimed.  "The water rose slowly.  If the earthquakes didn't destroy it, then the waters wouldn't have carried it away.  I believe the train described in the book might still be at the same place!"
     "You're crazy about the stories in that book, aren't you?" Boston asked her.
     "I like a lot of what he says and how he says it," she confessed.  "I feel like we're a lot alike."
     "So, if he were to be going on this adventure, what would he do?" her brother continued.
     "I don't know.  He seemed torn sometimes.  He wasn't the most confident person.  Sometimes, I felt like he wanted to say something else, something more, but he was afraid to offend.  I think he would've spent days and nights wondering if should endeavor on this adventure.  Ultimately, I think he would have, because it might be exciting.  Chances are we won't find anything.  Chances are this whole thing is a big mistake.  But, what if?  What if we didn't go?  What if we just stayed home and never left?  We'd never know!  No one knows what lies ahead.  And no one will until we get there.  Maybe we'll find a stupid, old phone that's absolutely worthless.  Maybe we'll save the world.  I'm not going to blame anybody but myself for our success or failure, but I need to know, Boston.  I want to see what's down there."
     Boston stared at his sister as if he had never seen her before.  He was strangely proud of her right then.  He felt the brim of his hat and imagined what they might find at the bottom of this lake.
     "What do you think he would've written about you, Alanaka?" Boston asked.
     She looked out the Corvette's window thoughtfully.  Finally, she replied, "now, that's deep..."
     "Alanaka!"  Mason called from the front seat.  "Give me a word from that book that was used in the old times for 'affirmative.'"
     She flipped through the pages as she considered out loud.  "Well... there was something in one called 'The Mad Dog Shack' that caught my attention," she paused as she searched through the text for what she was looking for.  "Here it is," she announced.  "Fuckin' A, bitch.  Not sure what that means, but it seems like it's being used in place of affirmative."
     "Sounds good to me," Mason shrugged.  "Harry, vocal command substitution.  Override voice prompt, 'affirmative' with 'fuckin' A, bitch'.  Also, wink one eye when you say it."
     "Fuckin' A, bitch."  Harry's head spun in a complete revolution at the same time that the Automatronic spoke the words, allowing the Zephyr's occupants to see the wink.  The three children shared a laugh.
     "Tell him to substitute 'negative' with 'hell no'," Boston suggested.  Mason was smiling as he edited his robotic friend's vocal prompts.
     After they settled down, Boston suggested that his sister turn off the Skip Rope to see if their PIB's were now operational.  She did, and after a quick test, they discovered that their PIB's were still not working.  A tense silence followed the discovery as the children, fraught with worry, considered the possibilities.  Maybe they were just passing through another radius of photonic battery interference.  Or, maybe, the problem was more widespread than they had thought.  For a burdensome moment, Alanaka considered the possibility that their PIB's might never work again.  She nervously pushed the thought away and tried to focus on their task ahead.
     When PIB's were first implemented centuries ago, one of the first things that people did was explore.  Safe from danger, they jumped into the oceans and explored places and depths that they never could before.  Even if someone got trapped, the PIB's communications made distress calls easy.  Spelunkers exploring caves; divers exploring sunken treasures; and, expeditions across the Antarctic were all common.  As Alanaka was nodding off to sleep, she wondered what would be under the lake where this city called Paducah had once existed.  Her eyes grew heavy as she stared out the window at a sky tower looming in the distance.
     "We're here!" Mason called.  Alanaka's eyes jerked open; and, based on the way that Boston jumped at the exclamation, he, too, must have dozed off.
     The Zephyr was flying just above the water.  The sun began to peak over the horizon and splashed some color onto the lake's surface.  A flock of geese took flight as they approached; their wings flapping excitedly.  Small islands dotted the marshy water, and Alanaka spotted a crane stretching on a muddy bank.  A few high points around the area had been spared from the flooding, but not many.
     Alanaka tested her PIB again only to discover that it still wasn't working.  She reactivated it by turning the Skip Rope back on and used it to give Harry precise coordinates to the train's location.  The Automatronic steered east into the sun; and, although the light hurt her eyes, Alanaka enjoyed the life-giving warmth of its glow.
     When at last Harry tugged on the steering controls and came to a stop, the trio of children began to chatter excitedly.  "Harry, hover us just above the water," Mason directed.  "Fuckin' A, bitch," the RX-47 winked.  The red Corvette fell steadily; the sudden descent tickled Alanaka's stomach.  The doors opened as soon as they reached their holding position.
     "We have to stay together!" Boston shouted above the roar of the engine as he tossed his hat in the back seat.  The water underneath rippled outwardly as the anti-gravity turbines gently feathered the air in their vicinity.  "Alanaka, keep the Skip Rope on at all times!  Don't try to talk; we need the PIB's force shield to keep us safe and since they're still not working like they should then other functions, such as communications, may disable our shields.  Best not chance it."
     "What about light?  How are we gonna see down there?" Mason asked.
     Alanaka answered by pulling her dad's spotlight out of her backpack and turning it on.  Its light was so bright, that it nearly blinded them.  Boston waved at her to point it away from them.  "That'll work!  Remember, stay together.  At best, we'll just get soak and wet.  At worst, well..."  He didn't finish the sentence.  Everyone knew what that could mean.
     "Ok!  On the count of three.. 1,2,... 3!!!"  The three adventurers jumped together into the water.  Something about the splash their synchronized jump produced made Alanaka giddy.  She was loving this.
     As soon as they got underwater, she turned on the spotlight and pointed it downward.  They swam toward its cone of illumination.  Small schools of fish swam past them, and a catfish, as big as Alanaka's leg, glided away from the perceived danger that these strangers represented.  A PIB's force shield surrounds its possessor just a hair's width above the skin; therefore, underwater movement is no different than it would be without a PIB's oxygenated bubble.
     Deeper they dove until, at last, the lake's bed appeared.  At first, they thought that nothing significant was going to be down there.  Aquatic plants that looked like seaweed seemed to cover everything, and the murky water limited visibility.  Boston waved to his right, so Alanaka pointed the spotlight in that direction.
     Despite being covered by algae, a large, brick building could be discerned on the lake floor.  The sight of it took Alanaka by surprise.  She didn't expect to see such a large structure; the realization that she was in the middle of an ancient city dawned on her.
     As they began to swim toward the ruins, Alanaka noticed that they were swimming next to a large, concrete wall.  Although it was mostly covered by years of algae growth, she thought she could make out artwork on the face of it.  Realizing that the train probably wouldn't have been sitting inside a structure, she motioned her companions away from the brick rubble and toward the wall.  Hand-in-hand, the three swam in unison.
     Another wall to their left enclosed them into a channel.  While Boston and Mason busied themselves by studying the colorful drawings that hid in crevices of the marine plant life, Alanaka turned to study the other wall.  Her eyes grew a size larger when she realized what she was looking at.
     It was no wall.  It was the rusted remains of a locomotive.  She tugged on Boston's hand and pointed at it.  He pulled Mason around to join them; and, the three adventurers, their hair floating about chaotically, paused to stare at their destination.
     Alanaka rolled her hand as if to say, ok, c'mon.  let's get this show on the road.  The two boys complied.  They began searching for a canister about the size of an antique, cellular phone.  This wasn't going to be easy.
     Suddenly, Boston's PIB began flashing a slow, deep blue.  Boston and Alanaka stared at each other, horrified.  Their mother was trying to call them!
     "Boston?"  Mrs. Montgomery's voice was clear at first; but, a moment later, as their force shield quickly filled with water, her remaining message was muffled by the water that surrounded them.
     Desperately trying to hold her breath, Alanaka struggled to not panic.  The weight and pressure of the water was a new and disturbing threat that she had never before encountered.  Mason began frantically pointing toward the surface.  Boston was just about to join him in a frantic attempt to ascend when the girl started waving for them to stop.  She pulled out her Skip Rope, turned it off, and then on again.
     "Triangulating PIBs.  PIBs synchronized."
     Resetting the Skip Rope had done the trick.  Boston's PIB was no longer flashing blue; and, more importantly, Alanaka could feel the force shield ejecting the water from the surface of their skin.  The perimeter it formed was, of course, invisible; so, aside from their wet hair and frenzied expressions, they looked no different.
     Mason was still pointing to the surface, trying with hand gestures to persuade them to end this crazy venture.  Alanaka help up one finger dramatically.  She must have been saying, just a second, because she certainly wouldn't be saying, just one more time.
     "PIB, locate the nearest magnet," she said.  Aghast, Boston and Mason stared at her.  A ray of light pointed from Alanaka's bracelet to somewhere within the locomotive's innards.  Water, again, began to flood their protective shells.  The two boys scrambled for salvation.  Before they could go far, Alanaka reset her Skip Rope.
      "Triangulating PIBs.  PIBs synchronized."
     The ray of light disappeared; and, once again, their force shield activated, making breathing possible.  Boston was angrily shaking his fist at his sister, but he and Mason realized that they couldn't leave her.  The three had to stay within a five foot perimeter or the Skip Rope wouldn't triangulate their PIB's, so she ignored him.  She swam to where her PIB had been pointing.  She wasn't able to take the time to find the precise location that it had been directing her, so she had to feel around for something in the general area that it was supposed to be.
     At last, just above a stack of leaf springs, she felt a metallic box that could be about the right size.  She tugged on it; and, although rust had nearly bonded it to the engine's belly, she pulled it free.  She dare not open it underwater, so she motioned to her two companions to swim to the surface.  They obliged without incident.
     "What was you thinking!?!" Boston shouted at his sister as soon as they surfaced.  Mason's creased brow and angry glower established that he, too, shared his friend's sentiment.
     "It was just for a second," Alanaka predicated.  "We would have never found it without the help of our PIB's and we already found out that resetting the Skip Rope would work.  We're fine..."
     Boston began climbing out of the water and onto the side rail of the hovering Corvette.  He was shivering; but, apparently, he wasn't cold enough for his PIB to adjust his body temperature.  Either that, or it was busy doing something else.  With singular functions, who knew what the PIB would determine to be a primary task?
     "I guess we're going to have to get the seats wet," Boston surmised once Alanaka and Mason joined him on the side rail.  Alanaka wasn't paying much attention; she was busy trying to pry open the box they had found.  She climbed inside after the boys had found their places.
     "Mason, see if your robot can open it," she said as she handed the box to the front seat where Mason was sitting.
     Still shivering, he took it from her begrudgingly.  "His name is Harry.  Harry, can you open this?" he asked the Automatronic.
     "Fuckin' A, bitch."  The RX-47 held the rusty, metallic box with one "hand" and used the other to wrest the lid open.  With a protesting screech, the hinges broke free.  Inside, some trinkets like a rubber ball, a plastic spider, and a key chain covered the item that Alanaka had hoped would be there.  An old-fashioned, cellular phone with a keypad and a small screen was laying in the bottom.  She carefully picked it up, so she could feel it for herself.  After a pause, she spoke distantly.  "Ok.  Let's go home."
     "Harry, set a course for home," Mason instructed his Automatronic.
     "Fuckin' A, bitch." It responded with a wink and a tug of the steering handles.  The Zephyr ascended, turned west, and flew into the sky.
     Now the only lingering question was where were they going to take this little artifact?
                                           (to be continued...)

If you enjoyed a trip to the future, try a trip to the past.  Check out a Flashback episode like "Brookport" for a little taste of 1986.  And thanks for tuning in!

-- and continue Alanaka's adventure in "Alanaka Episode IV - Sky Tower Trouble"