karen rutherford, freelance writer

I know I'm supposed to actually WRiTE something on this blog, but MY GOD.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AratTMGrHaQ

Jeff Buckley's bio and "Grace" album details are here:

http://www.jeffbuckley.com/bio.asp

http://www.jeffbuckley.com/album.asp?SecID=2

Nothing has made this gal want to leave Indianapolis more than a Marion County length commute on 82nd/86th Street. The meanness of it has driven me to stay inside all weekend escaping with movies like Baby Boom and Under the Tuscan Sun, and going on online journeys with The Frugal Traveler or Cynthia Morris.

I will always view our time here as a gift, because it’s been a wonderful place to raise Austin. He knows opportunity and diversity that he wouldn’t have known had we stayed where we were.

I also attribute my thoughts of escape to having never lived in one 6-mile radius this long. Same commutes, same stores, same people, same, same, same. Even Austin, who ribs me incessantly about moving him around too much because he knows it immediately conjures up maternal guilt and I’ll offer to either buy him something or cook him a real dinner, is ready to leave for Bloomington.

So I’m ready to work in Plainfield. I didn’t think I would be, but I am. I’m ready for highway drives again. I’m ready for new places to discover on my lunch hour. I’m ready for country (only meant as “non-city”) folks. I’m ready for a new view.

I also have thought and thought about moving in August when our lease ends. A smaller place, less expensive, possibly more convenient, makes sense. But I don’t think it’s time. The savings wouldn’t really make up for the cost to move, and I'm perfectly and quietly situated among a slew of retirees with disposable income for lots of travel.

And when I do move, I hope that it won’t be within the state. Another year. Or two. Greener pastures. Rolling hills. Sky to the ground. Water. Accents. Daydreams. Connections. Callings. And the womanly balls I haven't fully used since 2002.

Two weeks. She had been in the hospital for two weeks. Not unusual at 95. Every trip to the hospital was a long one.

I was two hours away, so I waited for the school holidays to visit. Then, I waited until Christmas afternoon, when I had to take Austin to his father’s family in Atlanta anyway.

Convenience.

Christmas Eve Day. Her only family visitor in two weeks.

“I’m scared.”

He patted her hand and stroked her hair. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”

The affirmation she needed.

The call came within the hour. He hadn’t even made it home.

I wasn’t there.

I enjoyed Christmas Eve and Christmas morning. He didn’t want to ruin Austin’s visit from Santa.

Convenience.

I just love this girl: This Fish Needs a Bicycle.

She takes me back to days loooong gone. She makes me think of ADP days and Studebaker’s on Windy Hill nights.

Of a bar behind Fuddrucker’s on the corner of Windy Hill and Powers Ferry Roads that meant so much to me at the time but the name of which I can’t remember now. Of Benson and Hedges Ultra Lights. Of red Pontiac Fieros. Of New Jersey’s Patty Rypkema.

Of Judd Nelson phone calls.

Of Iris Best and our mission to get her some action (*gasp* - it was the 80’s - at least we had a goal). Of leaving work to play drunk putt-putt golf. Of deck parties. Of the determination of a guy named Mark.

Of a real dinner and dancing date with Bryan Franz.

And of my swan song (and nose dive) in New York City with a poor man who liked me under a couple of false pretenses, but without which I never would have had the once-in-a-lifetime chance for so many things female.

Two tears - one sad, one happy - slowly roll down the same face of a different woman.

So, thanks for the memory
And strictly entre-nous, darling how are you?
And how are all the little dreams that never did come true?
Aw'flly glad I met you, cheerio, and toodle-oo

And thank you so much.

“Thanks for the Memory”
Written by Ralph Rainger and Leo Robin
(c) 1937 (renewed 1964) Paramount Music Corporation

Crushed tomatoes. Diced tomatoes. Chopped tomatoes. Stewed tomatoes. Whole tomatoes. Tomato sauce. Tomato puree. Tomato paste. Big cans. Little cans. Low sodium. Organic. Brands. Brands. And more brands.

All dangerously close to the spaghetti sauce that could have solved this entire thing.

But I was bound and determined to find what the recipe called for.

So, I stared at my list again. I breathed. And took it one can at a time.

A blur to the right heading towards me. A person. A man. I backed up a bit as a polite gesture and smiled into the air. I didn’t want to take my eyes off the tomatoes and lose my place.

The blur walked in front of me to the shelves of whatever it was he needed to the left, looked for a second, then walked, I think empty-handed, back to the right to rejoin his awaiting cart.

I heard, “Excuse me.”

“No, excuse ME.” A reflex.

28-ounce cans of whole tomatoes. Nope, definitely not it.

“I’m sorry. I just keep bothering you.”

“That’s okay.”

He was back. And not such a blur this time. I looked away first to clear my mind of tomatoes, and then looked at him. He was the cutest, in that understated way that just adds to the cuteness, thing I’ve ever seen.

He stood to the left for a second or two. Green beans, I think.

And, again, empty-handed to his cart.

“Really sorry.”

“Really okay.”

He smiled like he didn’t expect me to take him so well.

I didn’t want to stare or make him think I might stalk him later in the checkout line or the parking lot, the poor guy, so I went back to my study of canned tomatoes.

Back again.

“You know, I guess I’m just going to keep walking back and forth in front of you. I really am sorry.”

“It’s really okay. I’m having a tomato dilemma anyway.”

He laughed.

I laughed.

“It’s all just too much, isn’t it?”

“Yes! Yes, it is.”

I eventually got the proper tomatoes. I don’t remember if he found what he needed or not. And this morning I can’t really recall what he looked like. I do remember tall. And sandy-colored short hair. And polite. And funny. And entirely too close.

Moments like this happen about twice a year and shake up my asexuality. Damm this green bean shopper and Gary Allan videos.

When the one thing your chemistry has craved since its inception eludes you,
When the movie screen inside your forehead plays the same scenes each day and into each year,
When you know, with less years ahead than behind, that you are the same person you were on the playground,
The road ahead is perfectly clear.

The vision is a comfort, because you know yourself and your heart and soul and your mind
But it feels heavy with the burden of the still years of an unwavering need.
It will keep inviting itself and celebrating in otherwise happy moments
Reminding you of who you are and who you always will be.

You stand by your convictions and have recently become friends with your flaws.
You are proud of the good things you’ve done and you’ve learned from the bad.
You like your company and you like your dreams.
But, in the end, nothing matches the one thing you never had.

So, you’ll stand at the window looking out at your life’s last corner
Dreaming the dream that was never meant to be
Imagining how life would be different
If your reflection wasn't the only thing to see.

I know it's an irreverant phrase, but I am wasting time.

Boston Legal’s extra-long season premiere airs tonight!! I love, love, love that show. It’s the imaginary place where morality sits right beside legality, and both always win in the end. Well, if they don’t, we somehow understand – mad cow and all. John Laroquette joins the cast, too. I don’t know how the writers will have time in each episode to fit his and Alan’s closing arguments, but I can’t wait to see. Michelle Pfeiffer must beam with pride every day.

Today is the last day of registration for the Muse Online Writers Conference. I’ve never done something like this, but think I will try it out. It sounds like fun!

The Indiana Clean Elections Summit is Saturday! This group should be so proud of this accomplishment. I’m so happy to be a small part of it.

National headlines:
Bush announces a health plan.
Hillary’s not a lesbian.
Clooney is in tux after bike accident.
Jessica Alba admits to being super-dorky.

These, when the real news is that it’s raining in Indiana this morning! I might be able to skip a dose or two of the allergy meds, if it keeps up.

But seriously, did you know that an assembly of more than five is considered an illegal gathering in Burma (Myanmar)? And that the last time they had a protest like the one this week, the military opened fire on the crowd killing thousands of the protesters? And that, right now, the military is heading towards the crowd who are still protesting? God bless them. Where would we be without people like this?

After reading about this, I have a renewed strength to stand up for the (much smaller) things in which I believe, and a new appreciation (mixed with a pang of guilt) for a few silly American headlines and another irrelevant blog post.

Train and Brandi Carlisle music. The Story. Superman. Beautiful, unattainable boys. Why? Why now?

New, really lovely people and closer connections than I’ve felt in years and years. Centuries, even (ha).

Maybe it’s a universal reminder that I really shouldn’t be in a place so close to things I can’t have. A place where I can’t control my mind from wandering. The sad endings (so many) that I haven’t thought about in ages are suddenly and still so familiar.

All coming along with a reminder that there are these women to admire and emulate. I can take pride in them and me. Can I be happy with that? This is what I’ll find out soon.

My recent involvement with the new Indiana Clean Elections Coalition has resulted in something completely unrelated: a real hankerin’ to go to school. We meet at the University of Indianapolis and are organizing a Citizens’ Summit there in September. Three of the charter members are professors. And we click. I love it when Miss Charlotte patiently corrects our grammar. I love it when they talk their everyday academic talk and use words like plenary that I have to secretly look up.

My first adult appreciation for higher education came when I worked for CBU in Memphis while finishing my Bachelor’s degree. I loved it. Well, politics and misunderstood pecking orders aside, I loved it. We employees could take time off for class, for studying, for projects, or just for deep discussions all surrounded by impeccable landscaping, grand old buildings and oodles of ideas, and thoughts, and words, and opinions and perspectives.

I’ve wanted a graduate English degree for years now, but my son’s education has always been top billing. And still is. If I had $10,000 to spend on me, though, I’d be at school tomorrow!

Dear Lord, a new Down East website!

The perfect Saturday morning. Thank you for calling. I love you, too, and I'll be there soon.