Love and beer cans

I don’t write anymore. I mean, yes, I write emails and letters and snarky comments on Facebook. But I don’t WRITE, write. I need to get back into that. It used to make me feel good, free, balanced.

The other day I found a little book of poems that I hand wrote when I was in college. The date on the pages was seven years ago. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long since I wrote for no reason. Here are a couple excerpts.
_____________________________________________________________________________________

I wanted to write a verse poem.

ONLY LOVE

Put on the finger twenty years ago,
Perfectly polished, brilliantly gold.
Forever was the word, now let it bind,
This symbol round and full of shine.
This ring was said to hold these hearts,
To join them so they never part.

Time wanders by, and that was long ago,
Scratched the ring, and fading the gold.
Losing the feeling, releasing the bind,
Their smiles no longer full of shine.
Roaming lonely are now the hearts,
The ones the ring said would never part.

Put into the drawer just two weeks ago,
Dull with age and barely gold.
For this ring failed and just could not bind,
These souls who only apart could shine.
No piece of metal can restrain hearts,
No ceremony can vow to never part –

Only love.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

The notes preceding this one say, “someone asked me today what I think the meaning of life is…”

BEER CAN

I relate to that beer can
Bouncing down the stream -
Though I think I know who I am,
I’m still inclined to dream.

The can is pulled out of sight,
Held down by the water’s great force
Then resurfaces with great might;
I knew it would, of course.

It sails along in tranquility,
Unaffected now by the flow
It is all as it should be,
Along with the can I go.

Up ahead there is a stone
That the can cannot escape;
I think I heard the moan
When the can against it scraped.

The can continues to pass
All that it must face,
It knows that it will last,
It must complete the race.

I relate to that beer can
Bouncing down the stream -
Because I know who I am,
And I pursue the dream.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Written in response to: “tell me about love.”

MAKING IT

There is an art to making love,
It must be done just right.
You must be an artist
With beauty in your sight.

The caresses must be gentle,
The gazes unwavering.
You must know why and how
You give this sacred thing.

For sex is such a simple task,
Mosquitoes procreate.
To make it love, to make love,
You must know its fate.

You must feel it deep within,
And know it without doubt.
The fire is from the heart,
The love, from the inside out.

It happens very rarely now
That people understand
That making love takes more
Than just a woman and a man.

It takes two hearts, two souls,
Two lives completely unified.
It takes perfect love and perfect trust
To make love and keep it tied.

_____________________________________________________________________________________

It’s been seven years since I sat around and thought about love, the meaning of life, friendship, what gets and holds people together in relationships. I got too busy… work, client demands, a mortgage, homeowners associations and neighborhood watch meetings. Somewhere I lost focus. I lost… perspective.

I have a vacation coming up. It’s about time I dive back into sunshine, good wine, friends, self-realizations, and metaphysical poetry.

Don't judge a book by it's cover, or a girl by her figure.

I love the summer time so much. It is without question my favorite time of the year. Sunshine, tan skin, margaritas… Often we will have friends gather at my neighborhood pool to bar-b-que, share some unique alcoholic punches of varying flavors and colors, swim, play, lay in the sun, etc… Others in my neighborhood do this as well, and it generally turns in to a mash-up of friends and good times. The other day I had a couple hours free on a glorious Saturday, so I decided to go lay out at the pool for awhile and read my book. There was a little paper sign on the gate that said “happy birthday Brandon” with a picture of a dinosaur on it surrounded by spider man stickers. I was guessing based on this that Brandon was not turning 25 and that there would be no alcoholic punch of any color available for partaking in at this particular pool party.

Once inside the pool area I was actually happy to see the many kids splashing and playing in the shallow end of the pool, older kids doing cannon balls into the deeper end. All too often I visit the gigantic pool and find that I am the only person there. Which is a shame given the amount of money we homeowners pay annually to keep the thing open and sparkling clean.

I walked down near the deep end of the pool and set up shop. Towel on the lounger, check. Book out, check. Flip flops off, Gatorade out, dunk in the pool to cool off, check, check, check. Once established, I took a quick scan of the entire pool. I will be the first to admit that I am a people-watcher. People are infinitely interesting to me. I think there’s a lot to be said for what you can tell about people by watching them for 5 minutes. I also think there’s a lot to be said for what you CAN’T tell about them, both points equally intriguing.

Near the covered area of the concrete, what we call “the pavilion”, the birthday party-goers gathered. Moms and dads with children scattered all over ranging in ages from 8 months to probably 12 or 13 years old. Most of the women were wearing dark colored swimsuits with skirt bottoms, the men in Hawaiian flowered trunks of blue, red, orange. Both trying to wrangle children long enough to slap some spf 30 on them and send them on their way. I sat down on my lounger and thought about how I can’t wait until that’s me. Cranky and yelling, “Get over here so I can put sunscreen on you! You’re going to burn up like a Christmas Ham!” I smiled to myself, because that’s exactly what I would say.

It wasn’t long after I was all settled in with my borrowed copy of Dry, by Augusten Burroughs, that I noticed the cutest little toddler jumping off the side of the pool. He was absolutely fearless. His dad would catch him, let him go under water, pop him back up, and set him back on the edge. He would run a circle and charge back into the pool. This went on for several minutes. He just laughed and laughed… it was one of the cutest things I’d ever seen! The little baby noticed me too and really began hamming it up. Smiling and looking back to make sure I was watching before plunging in again. Shortly thereafter I flipped over onto my stomach and returned to my book.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a group of three women gathering in the pool. They were near the father/ son dynamic duo, and about 15 feet from where I was laying. It became apparent that one of the women in the pool was the mother of the brave little cliff jumper, and the other two were her friends. I began to hear under-the-breath comments, though I wasn’t catching full sentences. “Inaudible… inaudible… Barbie… inaudible… with her little towel and Gatorade… hehehe inaudible” giggle… giggle… giggle…

I didn’t look up for a long time. Just pretended I couldn’t hear them, and kept my nose in my book. Then, “Hey Evan, go ask her how much those puppies set her back!” Hehehe Giggle… giggle…. cackle. Evan, the apparent father of baby Cliff Jumper turned around and shushed them. Obviously embarrassed by his wife’s rather large friend’s outbursts, he took the baby to the other side of the pool. Not saying anything, I glanced up at the group in the water. I started thinking… these women are mothers for God’s sake. Don’t they have something better to do with their time than gawk at me and make ridiculous rude comments based on inappropriate assumptions? Whatever. Long ago I abandoned the idea that everyone in the world was nice and good. I turned back over, still reading, and took a sip of my Gatorade. It was getting a little warm. Yuck.

A few minutes later I heard again, “Evan… seriously… go ask her! (Laugh, snort) Go ask her how much those things set her back!” Evan still ignored the woman I’d begun to refer to in my mind as the ‘big-mouthed-not-so-beached-whale’. But she and her two friends still cackled in the pool, bobbing up and down like a few misplaced buoys. The sight of them, accompanied by her words started to sting a little. I started bouncing thoughts around in my head… So let me get this straight… just because I have on a two piece swimsuit, sans skirt bottom, and am drinking Gatorade, reading, and laying out… I am “Barbie” and you want to know what my “puppies set me back”? Screw that. There are many women in this world who do have breast implants, a number of them because of that awful thing known as breast cancer. My future mother in law, for example… One of the most beautiful women I know, inside and out. If those cellulite infested women had made that comment about her, I would have been in that pool swinging in a heartbeat. I am lucky. I have not had breast cancer. But these women don’t know that.

I made up my mind to leave. As I stood up and began to pack my things I heard another Barbie comment, something about “…don’t forget your heels ha ha ha.” I looked down at my 3 dollar Old Navy flip flops and simply could not take it anymore. I turned around, beach bag on my shoulder, and walked to the edge of the pool so that I was looking squarely down on the cacklers. “Are you referring to these ‘puppies’?” I asked and pointed to my chest. The women just looked at me, two of them moving slightly away from the one delivering the colorful commentary. The looks on their faces said ‘oh shit’ as they shifted their gazes from me to the whale and back again. Whale started, “oh… well…. I….” but I cut her off.

Staring right at her I said, “Oh, I don’t know. If I have to guess I’d say they’re worth about 5 grand, give or take. Also, I know a really great doctor if you’d like his number. He does liposuction so you could get some of that (finger pointing up and down motion) taken care of.” She stood there in the pool, mouth open, just looking up at me. Then she kind of whispered, “Excuse… me…?”… My turn again. “Oh, have I offended you? I apologize. I thought we were free to share our thoughts on each other’s appearances here today. Sorry ‘bout that.”

I walked away slowly; prepared for more battle should that be necessary. I could feel all the catty women in the pool watch me leave. But as I walked passed Evan, he smiled at me and waved Cliff Jumper’s little baby hand. I felt bad for stooping to their level, but part of me really hoped that there was some kind of lesson communicated. That maybe next time they won’t be so rude, judgmental, and mean spirited. I know that since the beginning of time girls have been unkind to one another occasionally, but it’s no wonder we have such bully issues in schools these days with mothers like that setting examples.

Please, everyone. Be slow to judge. Harrumph.

Spring of '99

I've kept this in a box for ten years. It has survived 8 moves with me, and countless reads. This has served as inspiration for me so very often. It is a true story... one which I think of often and look back on fondly. Thanks, Wilhelm, for providing me with motivation... still.

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1999 Girls Soccer Poem

By: Coach Ron Wilhelm

Just a few little words for these ladies of mine.

So prop up your feet, as I commence my rhyme.

I will start at the beginning, when I was first offered this position.

Coaching girls in sports was against my intuition.

How could I relate, I was this macho man.

What did I know about make-up, or artificial tans.

I heard we had some talent, a team with a lot of spark.

And a halfway decent forward, by the name of Debbie Stark.

So I said what the heck, I will give this thing a try.

I could appreciate plumeria lotion, just like any other guy.

I mean I have a 3 year old girl; this could help me my wife would say.

I could reach my feminine side, Yeah, ok… anyway!

So it is the first day of practice, and I could see the fear in their eyes.

They had heard horror stories from some Northwest soccer guys.

Could these girls be pushed, or would they buckle at the knees?

What transpired next would shock this coach indeed.

I had them crawling in mud, and running up steep hills.

Doing pushups and sit ups, just to test their will.

I even made them carry girls upon their backs.

But these ladies would not break, for guts they did not lack.

After a tough three weeks, we were ready for our first game.

It was at home against Fox, and we put them to shame.

Right then I knew this season would be great.

Not just in our record, but in the memories we would create,

Speaking of memories, I would like to share a few.

I wonder parents if you know, just what your girls do.

The first involves Kristen, the leading clown on the team.

She decided to flash some girls, if you know what I mean.

But it was not just the girls, who saw Kristen in the light.

A one Matt Stichling, had his eyes fixed on the sight.

The second memory involves, coach Amwary himself.

I wonder if he picks his outfits, from the male or female shelf.

He came to practice one day, with cute ruffly socks.

Not the kind worn by, tough masculine jocks.

As you can imagine, the girls had a field day with that.

They picked on everything worn, by this cool dressing cat.

I must admit coaching girls, brought something new every day.

Especially on the bus rides for the games that were away.

Girls and guys prepare differently, on the rides to the game.

Guys bang their heads, until they go about insane.

Girls get out their mirrors, put make up on their face.

Take out their combs, to make sure every hair is in place.

They lotion up their skin, take out perfume to spray.

Put on lipstick and eyeliner, now they are ready to play.

They step onto the field, and put on a new face.

One that says, “I am getting that ball, so you best get out of the way.”

Their competitive spirit, is better than any guys team I have known.

They have got so much heart and guts, they are just bad to the bone.

Our regular season was outstanding, with only one misstep along the way.

A loss against Seckman, in our Senior’s last home game.

This loss would prove to be, the best thing for this team.

We had to get refocused, if we were to fulfill our dream.

So, it was back to the drawing board, and back to the hills.

It was suicide sprints, and a test of their will.

How would they respond, when put to the test.

I will tell you what we got, Northwest’s best team yet!

We rolled off five straight wins, and it was now district time.

I felt sorry for our opponent, because it was our turn to shine.

First it was Fox, who thought they could compete.

Until Mandy buried a goal, and ensured their defeat.

Next it was Seckman, who had given us a loss.

But now it was our turn, to show them who was boss.

It only took one minute, to shut up the Jaguar’s team.

That whole game was turning out, just like I had dreamed.

Before you knew it we had victory, the score was four to one.

Seckman was out there crying, while the Lions were having fun.

We had finally won district, after a very long drought.

This, I was thinking, is what sports is all about.

It was also about motivation, and I did my share.

I was soon was transformed, into a stud with blonde hair.

Northwest was on the way, and we were not done with our dance.

But if you read the papers, we did not stand a chance.

They all called us underdogs, we did not have a prayer in the world.

One small, small problem: they forgot to tell our girls.

The girls knew they would be ready, to come out and play.

But, just for safe measure, we thought we should pray.

So Holly led us in prayer, and it was time to take the field.

This was the State tournament; let us see who was real.

After 80 minutes of soccer, there still was no score.

It was now into overtime, could our girls give anymore?

You could throw out skill, it was now about the guts.

It was time to take names, and start kicking butt.

It was one overtime, two overtimes, three overtimes and then four.

120 minutes of soccer, and still, a 0-0 score.

What transpired next, was to be my greatest coaching thrill.

A gut wrenching moment in sports, the ultimate test of will.

It is called penalty kicks, and the pressure is unreal.

I started talking to God, “Hey, let’s make a deal.”

But, it was Hazelwood who was, nervous as Janelle moved in the net.

She was psyching out the Hawks, who were beading up with sweat.

Their first shot went over, and it was Debbie’s turn to score.

I was very confident; she had done this, oh, 43 times before.

Next was Mandy K, our senior leader was set.

Before the keeper could move, the ball was in the net.

Next was Janelle, in my opinion, keeper of the year.

This girl is all heart, she knows no fear.

She very calmly walked up, and then tickled the twine.

Yes, Janelle Simpson, it was your turn to shine.

Our fourth kicker was Brooks; a little nervous, no a lot!

But, you could never tell, by the way she buried her shot.

It was four kickers up, and four shots made.

Come on Janelle, just one more to save!

And what a save it was, history was made.

Yes, Lady Lions, this memory will never fade.

Northwest was now, one of the best in the state.

We were now in the quarterfinals, among the elite eight.

I was so proud of these girls, and not just one or two.

It was a whole team effort that helped see this through.

As far as individuals, where do I begin?

Maybe my freshman sweeper, Amanda, who could stop a truck from going in.

What can you say about Debbie? Coaching her was a dream.

She is simply the finest athlete this state has ever seen.

But, she is much more than that, as most of you know for sure.

I can only hope my daughter; can grow to be like her.

And to Mandy, Janelle, Jessie and Amber G…

To Holly, Amanda, and to Carrie Girse.

Thank you, thank you, for all that you have done.

You special seniors, really make coaching fun.

And no I have not forgotten Kristen Riff’s special part.

You see she holds a place, very close to my heart.

She suffered a broken leg, a couple years ago.

And there is something about her that I want you to know.

She ran all our sprints, and all of our hills.

She never copped out on any of our drills.

She did not play much, but there is no shame.

She deserves a spot in our soccer hall of fame.

In my parting words to the seniors, you better come visit next year.

For although you may be gone, you are always welcome here.

A greater team, a greater season, I don’t think I will ever find.

Let us never forget just how magical, was the spring of ’99.

Advice For Myself

Last night I was having a couple drinks with good friends, listening to some good ol’ fashioned bluegrass music under an outdoor pavilion. We started talking about my birthday coming up and about my high school reunion just a couple months away. My mom, sitting next to me, piped up about turning 50 next week and looking across the table at my 5 month old god-son I was struck by the speed with which life passes us by.


Ten years since I’ve graduated? My tiny, excitable, little mother is fifty? My birthday is in three weeks? My baby godson is five months old? Holy. Crap. I started thinking about that Brad Paisley song, Letter To Me… and what advice I might give myself if I could write a letter to me, and send it back in time to myself at eighteen. Although life passes us by at break-neck speed, I believe that I’ve found a few little gems worthy of passing on to myself.


I think the letter would go something like this:


Holly Renee,


Believe it or not, this letter is from you - from the future. Ten years to be exact.


Yes, I am composing it on my Dell Latitude D620 laptop and chugging down coffee like it’s my job. I know you’re probably calling bullshit right now, so let me start by saying - that “life plan” you made, complete with timeline and sketches of your future husband and children, in your secret blue journal you keep hidden under the lining of your underwear drawer: forget about it. You’re way off.


I don’t want to tell you anything that will cause you to make different decisions… because despite all the mistakes, you turn out pretty decent. Here’s what I know:


About friends – Always remember quality over quantity. The best friends are those who know everything about you and love you anyway. You will have over three hundred facebook friends (that will mean something to you later), but the ones that really matter are the ones who are there to hug you when you’re sad, toast you when you’re happy, and hold your hair when you puke. Surprisingly, your mom and dad will be a couple of your dearest, closest, and most fun friends. Seriously… don’t roll your eyes.


About careers – Stop stressing about college so much. It doesn’t matter what college you go to. It doesn’t matter what you major in. It doesn’t matter what it says on your college diploma, as long as you have one. Don’t get me wrong, college is really important. You will learn all about 18th century British literature, the art of poetry, great philosophical thinkers, and yourself. It will open lots of doors for you and believe it or not, you’ll end up working in advertising. You will have a high stress, high reward job. You’ll love it and you’ll meet the most amazing friends there. But in the end, your career won’t define you. Your career isn’t your life. Don’t ever let people try to convince you that it is.


About family – There’s no time like the present. Cherish every moment you have with every person you love. They won’t be around forever. Start working on Dad now about the steak, chicken wings, and smoking… his heart will send him a message later to back you up. Let your little sister hang out with you. It’s not that big of a deal, and you’ll appreciate the times you had together. Come summer, 2005 those times will become few and far between.


About love – You should just go ahead and accept the fact now: the only man who will never let you down is your Daddy. The words, “I love you” mean different things to different people. Apparently to some people it means, “I will tear your heart out, stomp on it until it quits beating, and then feed it to my dog”. But don’t worry about that… you become pretty good at getting over heartache. You are hard headed and it will take a significant amount of pain before you realize what you’re worth and find someone deserving of your heart. These moments of hurt, however, are what helps form you who you are. The whole “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” thing is definitely a theme in your life so far… but the moments of hurt are far surpassed by the happiness that finding the right person brings. Hint: find the person who is your perfect counterpart, the balance that brings is what makes it work.


About life – They lied. These aren’t the best years of your life… you have some amazing ones up ahead. Be slow to judge and quick to forgive… always remember that you aren’t perfect either. Take time to look at the sky, to wish on stars, and to talk to God. Material things don’t mean much, but drive a car you like. It will make all the difference in your commute. Listen when people talk, don’t just hear them – and try your best to remember people’s names. Red wine is best when shared with friends, margaritas are best when paired with cheese dip, and rum is best when lying by a pool. When not having any of those, drink water. Keep playing soccer. Sometimes, eat desert first. Listen to music. Lie in the sun (and wear sunscreen). Think about your future, but don’t obsess over it... it will all work out. I promise.


Love,
Me



PS – Continue to defend your Cardinals. They'll be back. As a matter of fact, bet on them to win the World Series in 2006.

The Hallmark Life

Hallmark has really screwed me over. They have set my expectations for love and life unreasonably high. It’s similar to the Disney princesses… you know, with their beautiful silky hair, doe eyes, and impossibly thin waists? Same thing, but for life rather than physique.

I’ve come to realize that every time I have a bad day, someone in my life is not going to say to me, “Holly, you’re beautiful, smart, successful, and I love you every minute of every day.” That’s just crap. Additionally, when I have a good day, no one will tell me, “Hooray! You did it! Great job!” - Or other such nonsense.

Still, I buy the cards. I drink the Hallmark kool-aid.

The other day I was standing in my local Walmart Superstore card aisle. I wanted to get a card to tell a good friend of mine “thanks”, or “I appreciate you”, or something else that I thought Hallmark could say better than me… But then I got severely sidetracked. I started looking at the card aisle as something bigger than it was. Something more meaningful.

Here’s how it goes in said card aisle, from left to right: Sympathy, Thanks, Congratulations, Friendship, New Love, Troubled Relationship, True Love, Engagement, Wedding, Anniversary, and Baby. (Birthday options are on the opposite side: his, hers, from both, etc…). This order made sense to me. It was rational, sequential, and easy to follow. I think at some point in my life I have bought someone a card from each section. But not all have been bought for me… For some reason, on this day, that idea in relation to the order of the card aisle terrified me. How it that I am this is age and I’ve just been in a vicious circle between Friendship, New Love, and Troubled Relationship for so long?! Too bad my card aisle didn’t have a Divorce section; I could have thrown that one in there too, for a little flavor.

If my card aisle = life, then I am severely stagnant. I made a decision. I made a commitment to move forward in the card aisle. I’m not going back. This means no looking back either, and I am finally getting comfortable with that… as hard as that may seem right now.


Oh yes, True Love, Engagement, Wedding, Anniversary, and Baby cards. You will be mine. Oh yes, you will be mine. It's time to grab a hold of life's reigns and make some directional changes... just like no one else will dispense my Hallmark sayings at the end of each of my days, no one else can get me where I want to go. It's up to me, and I'm heading to the right end of the card aisle.

Life-ing

Running late.

Trying to cram more into a single day than one person should be able to.

Talking on the cell phone, sending an email from the blackberry, and balancing a purse.

Clicking through the local supermarket in 5" black snakeskin stilettos and a pencil skirt.

Picking up a bottle... scratch that... two bottles of wine.

Dammit. I should have gotten a basket.

Emailing. Still conference calling.

Holding now two bottles of wine and reading the nutritional value label on a box of popcorn.

"Thanks, great, talk with you tomorrow."

Leaning over so that the cell phone I'm finally finished with can drop directly from my ear/shoulder hold into the purse.

Cringing as I imagine a bottle of wine crashing to the shiny, freshly waxed white and green tiled floor.

Rounding the corner to head to the checkout, still emailing with the hand attached to the arm with a bottle of wine under it.

Looking up, I spot a Hannah Montana sippy cup. Pink and purple... right next to the other sippy cups and Dr. Brown baby bottles.

Stopping, possibly for the first time that day, I scan the aisle. Images of babies and mothers. Bottles, pacifiers, and a section of formulas.

Hating this aisle immediately, I look at the bottles in my arms.

Thinking I would trade them in a snap for a package of baby bottles, a pacifier, a bottle of formula, and a couple bibs.

Buzzing from the blackberry, dinging from the cell phone brings me back to reality.

Feeling irritated and reminded of why I am holding wine in the first place, I shake off the images of the thing I want the most.

Walking to the register. Checking out. Moving on.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xR0DKOGco_o

Gasoline in the Grass

When I was going into first grade at St. Anthony's catholic elementary school, my parents built a home on an acre in the middle of High Ridge, MO. The land that they decided to build on was this beautiful old orchard. The construction workers tore down all the trees in sight and began erecting our home. Our beautiful, 3 bedroom, 2.5 bath ranch home that would eventually become my dream home. The home that I would always remember as a haven, a sanctuary, a place to lock myself away and be... me. Whoever I wanted to be. I spent hours looking out my bedroom window, across a large, plush, dark green lawn - luxurious from years and years of fruit tree fertilization. Dreaming of who I might become, who I might love, who might love me. That expansive front yard was my place for playing, dreaming, learning, growing.

My little sister, Becky, and I loved to run around, play Frisbee, dance, sing at the top of our voices in that front yard. We were constantly learning something new, it seemed. Throw the ball this way, catch it like that, this is how ballerinas dance, be careful when you wear a skirt. We loved to entertain ourselves by seeing who could run faster, jump higher, twirl the longest. My father would sit in the garage on a lawn chair and watch us. Beer in hand he looked proud, always... of his girls AND his beautiful envy-evoking lawn.

One sunny Saturday, in the summer of 1987, when I was about 7 years old, we developed a game. We had a long stick and each of us had an end of the yard. The goal was to get to the other person's side and thrust the stick into the yard before they could touch you. It's how I developed my evasive soccer skills, no doubt. On my first successful attempt at Becky's side, I saw a hole in the yard and pushed that stick into it with all my strength. While Becky leaned over and panted, I did a little victory jig. (Looks something like: hands up in tiny fists above my head, moving up and down, butt sticking slightly out, hips shaking side to side, "uh huh, uh huh, you can't stop me, you can't stop me"). Becky rolled her eyes and went to pull the stick out of the hole, but it was really stuck in there. I walked over and wrapped my hands around the stick too. We both pulled up with little grunts. What happened next surprised the hell out of us, and, in some ways, changed my life.

As the stick came out of the ground, it was followed by a solid stream of yellowjackets. We didn't know that they were yellowjackets at the time, but just started screaming "bees! bees!". I looked at Becky and told her to run to the house. As the stinging insects covered us, we ran and swung our arms around and screamed. It was almost slow motion as we simultaneously ran and tried to keep the 'bees' out of our mouths. By the time we reached the front door of our home, my mom and dad were meeting us there. My mother's eyes were huge when she saw her little girls covered in buzzing, stinging bugs. They were all over us, head to toe. They were in our socks, shorts, shirts, tangled in our hair. We were spitting them out of our mouths, we were completely covered. I looked at my dad, and while his forehead was furrowed and concern filled his eyes, there was something else there too... Pain? As my mom frantically began waving the yellowjackets off, she also began stripping us down. Our clothes were off before we knew what she was doing. She threw our clothes into the front yard rushed us into the house. My dad had been running a cold bath full of baking soda and threw us into it despite our shrieks. Becky cried a little, but less than I expected her to. It all happened so fast.

Sitting in the cold, milky white tub water, shivering, mom picking bees out of our hair, Becky whimpering, listening to my parents debate whether or not we should be taken to the hospital, I wondered what it was I saw in my dad out there on the porch. I was worried he was angry with us for getting into the bees' nest. Fortunately, neither of us were allergic to the stings and while we each had little red welts all over our bodies, our faces, in places that made wearing panties uncomfortable, we were lucky.

That night, my parents tucked us in as usual. I covered my eyes as my dad twisted the little metal bow tie on the bottom of one of my many music boxes. As was our routine, I listened for a few seconds and then guessed which one it was. Sometimes I would get it wrong just so he wouldn't lose interest in our bedtime game. When he came over to my bed and leaned over to give me a kiss, I turned to face him and asked, "Dad? Are you mad at us about the bees?" He looked at me for a split second before answering, "No. I am not mad at you about the bees. I am mad at the bees." Relieved, and content with his answer, I squirmed down into my twin bed covered in stuffed animals, and drifted off to sleep.

My father worked nights when we were little, and so during the week we didn't get to see him much. Sunday afternoons were his Monday mornings. He left about 5:00 pm and would get home around 2am. So the day following "the bee incident", I overheard him talking to my mom as he put his work boots on. "Just keep them inside. I'll take care of it." My mom didn't ask any questions. Underground insects seemed like just the thing my dad could handle.

Monday morning, my mom woke me up with her usual little song and dance, "rise and shine sleepy head!" I opened my eyes and rolled out of bed. I could hear my dad snoring across the hall. We had a babysitter that would come over during the day and keep an eye on us until my dad got up to get ready for work. I wasn't a huge fan, but she let us play outside, so that was cool. I walked over to the window to see if it was sunny. I was shocked to see a giant scorched, black area of the yard. My perfect, soft, beautiful grass was completely ruined! I ran to my mom, "Mom! What happened to the yard?!" She looked at me, a little confused, and then walked to my bedroom window. I heard her let out a little gasp before putting her hand on my shoulder and telling me not to worry about it. "I'm sure your dad just wanted to make sure those bees wouldn't come back."

I stood there at my window staring at the blackened area of the yard. Sure, it's where the bees were... but there had to be a better way! Oh well, what's done is done. At least it's only a section of the yard... and the grass would grow back, right?

I could hear my mother's hushed tone in their bedroom, and my father's sleepy mumbled responses. Then she came out and said, "your dad wants you to stay inside today until he can make sure all the bees are gone, ok?" I reluctantly agreed. I hated the idea of spending a beautiful summer day inside, but it was better than facing my father's wrath, so I just sat there staring out the window, coloring, listened to my sister and our babysitter playing barbies in the living room... until I heard my dad starting to stir. It was earlier than he usually got up. I met him at his door. He wasn't dressed for work yet, but was instead wearing a pair of shorts and a white t-shirt. "Dad, can we go see if the bees are gone?!"

He looked down at me, smiled, and said, "Yep. Let's go see". I put on my care bear flip flops and ran to the front door. He and I walked out into the sunshine and carefully out onto the lawn. I kicked my shoes off at the grass as I always did, and let the soft blades caress my feet. I loved that feeling. My dad was a few steps ahead of me and I heard him say, "You have GOT to be kidding me. Son of a bitch!" Hearing my dad swear was not new to me... but I didn't really understand what he was upset about. As I walked over to him and followed his gaze down to the lawn, I quickly understood. There between us in the ground was a hole, just like the one Becky and I had pulled the stick from... but we were at the opposite end of the yard. It didn't make sense to me. I followed my dad around, and as we walked z shaped lines across our beautiful lawn, we found hole after hole. Some with bees sitting on the edges of them, slowly crawling in and out of them, then taking off and buzzing around us. "They're in the entire fucking yard..." he said... to no one in particular. I looked up at my dad. The look on his face clearly displaying how furious he was. "Holly, go back inside please. The bees aren't gone."

I didn't even argue. I walked back into the house, closed the door behind me, glanced at my little sister playing barbies on the floor, and headed straight for my room.

That night, when I went to bed, I was fairly certain that my dad would kill the bees and I would be able to play outside again. I was hopeful that it would happen that week. I smiled as I thought of the new games Becky and I could create before the summer ended.

I awoke to my parent's bedroom light snapping on and my mom running down the hall. As my eyes adjusted to the light streaming into my room from the hallway, I noticed that there was an equally bright light coming from my window. I threw my covers off and jumped out of bed. I pressed my hands against the window and stood in disbelief as I watched my *entire* front yard burn. There were 7 foot high flames bursting from every hole in the yard that my dad and I had found earlier that day. My dad was standing in the driveway, hands on hips, garden hose at his feet... surrounded by big red plastic gas cans. I saw my mom run over to him, she was yelling something over the roar of the fire, but from inside the house it was just a muffled, urgent tone.

I felt my eyes well up with tears and I pressed my forehead against the window. The glass was warm from the flames outside despite the air vent blowing my pink nightgown around at my knees. I was shocked, sad, and then angry. I heard my mom come back in the house, and I met her in the hallway.

"Why is he doing this?! Why would he ruin it like that?!"

My mom wrapped her arms around me. "It's ok. There were too many bees. He's just doing what he has to so that you can safely play outside again."

She put me back in bed, covered me up, and said... "Don't worry, it will grow back soon enough."

The lights clicked off and I laid there in bed for what seemed like hours... staring at my ceiling and watching the shadows dance in the flickering light from the flames outside. The hot fire devouring my favorite place in the world.

When I woke up the next morning, I didn't walk to the window. I didn't want to know what it would look like. I sat in my room, in the still of the house, and tried to wish it away. I heard my parents in their room. My dad didn't sound sleepy, so I know he must have been awake for awhile. I heard my mom ask, "How much, Tom?" "Ten Gallons." was the reply. "Ten GALLONS?!? You poured ten gallons of gas into your family's front yard?! You could have killed us! There had to be a better way! Don't they make some spray or smoke or something?!" I walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped out onto the porch. What lay in front of me was devastating.

Black, charred earth. Complete barren wasteland where my beautiful soft green wonderland had been. I felt the anger again. I slammed the door and stomped down the hallway to my parent's bedroom. I pounded on the door and demanded to speak to my father.

He opened the door. I looked up at him with what must have been the saddest eyes he'd ever seen. He said, "C'mon. Let's talk."

He explained to me that he was sorry that in order to kill the bees he had to destroy the yard. He said, "Even though we loved our yard, we had to do what was necessary to make sure we were safe, to do what was best for us. So, yeah.... We have to start over, and it will be a lot of hard work. We will have to fill in those deep holes that the bees made with fresh soil so that new life can grow there. We will have to plant new grass seed and water it, and care for it daily. But in time, we will have a new, fresh, green yard... and it will be better than ever. You can lay in it and dance in it, do everything you did before... but this time it will be even more fun because you will know that you helped grow the grass. And there is nothing in there that will hurt you ever again."

I was so angry with my father that morning, but what he taught me I've never forgotten. Sometimes you have just blow shit up and start over in order to achieve what's best for you. It's hot and uncomfortable and dangerous. You have to watch something you once loved burn and die... but at the end of the day, it's usually worth it. I've blown more shit up in my life than I care to admit. Relationships, specifically. They start to become hard to deal with. The bees start coming out of the ground... swarming, making it hard to breathe. The holes that are left behind are vast, leaving me feeling hollow and unloved. When the emptiness overtakes the green facade, I blow it up.

It's a delicate balance though. If you're not careful, you can end up dumping gasoline and lighting a match when really you could just use "spray or smoke or something". Work things out, fill in the holes, make the lawn stronger than before without destroying it.

I've never tried the latter... maybe it's time. Or maybe I'll just blow it up again.