Campfire Childbirth

Drinking provides the perfect time for appropriate social interaction. We sit around the fire and drink whiskey and tell stories about a man with a hook or the college student who didn’t turn on the light. Sometimes we talk about our future; the plans we have and the plans life has for us. Occasionally, we realize that some people’s plans are dumb.

[For the sake of my future drinking/social opportunities I will refrain from accurate names.]

Our social interaction session began with the idea of the perfect age to produce a child. Different numbers were kicked around and an exact age was never decided. I found all of the ages to be too young. I would like children some day but I’m no where near ready to be responsible for a life. Could I do it? Yes. Is one ever ready for the shock of a child? No. I’ve heard parents kick this phrase around many times: “I just want my children to grow up in a better world than the one I inherited.” At 18, how has a parent effected the world so that their child grows up in a better world? What about at 21 or 25? It’s true some people have reached their potential at 25. I hesitate to argue that one’s life potential could be reached by 18 or 21 for the sake of transcendentalism. Do we not owe to our future children some action that leads to a positive reaction in our world?

A couple sitting around our interactive fire discussed the possibility of having children in the near future. First for a little background: She is 18 and four days, he is 21, he is unemployed and uneducated, she employed at the minimum wage level and beginning college in the fall. The 18 year and four day old girl stated that she wanted a child by the age of 21. After I caught my head that simply shot off in amazement, I couldn’t think of anything to say other than “Why?” I don’t remember her response. I apologize for my journalistic shortcomings. I did think about my life at 18. I considered what a child raised by a 21 year old would become in the future. How would I have raised a child at 21? Even at this moment I am absolutely stunned by the naivety in wanting a child at 21. Its fun to play house and to sign your future wedded name, but waking up in the middle of the night to change diapers at 21 is not what I ever imagined.

One comment I do remember: “Part of life is having children.” This is true. Childbirth is a miracle. It is absolutely amazing. I look at my nephew (age 4) and see both my sister and brother-in-law. Two people I truly respect. Everything can’t always be planned, but their child was born at an appropriate time. I hope I am blessed enough to have children some day, but I know at 21 I would not be prepared, both physically and mentally, to raise a child. My question to the 18 year and four day old would be: “In having a child at such a young age what other parts of life have you ignored?”

All of this discussion brings me around to a political point (boo). Mississippi is a state in poverty. Conditions have improved, though we have a long hike ahead. How will this state ever move away from poverty when 18 year old girls want children before they finish college? Simply, we cannot.

Maybe I’m being too negative today.  Here’s a blog from a mom who’s got it going on.

Writer’s Depression

Write Write Write

Good Tonight Horrible Tomorrow

Erase

Backspace is your friend.

Out of the Zone.

Not really in the zone for writing tonight.  I’m not going to force out crap.

I will include a link for any writers out there who have possibly picked up on this blog already:

The Mississippi Review

Fiction/Poetry contest with $1000 award.

Also check out the Center for Writers at the University of Southern Mississippi.

Shipped off to the Big Show

At some point in public school education, of which I am a proud product, every student is asked to write or discuss their first memory. I apologize for lack of memory of my first memory.  My first real memory is the abandonment of a book bag.

I remember third grade. I had a black book bag complete with an attached raincoat. Raincoat never fit. I was a larger child than most. Mrs. January was my teacher. A large black woman who was known to be strict. One day as I spoke out of turn she revoked my chocolate milk privilege at lunch. Perfect punishment for a child. I remember eating lunch one day. I can still smell the cafeteria. A strong odor of cleaning products mixed with rotten lettuce and delicious red beans and rice. I have no idea what I was eating or why when my sister came to free me from school she let me finish my lunch. Not that I’m at all bitter about being allowed to finish. It’s one of those odd reflections. The things history never intended to be remembered but they somehow appear and never fit. My happy plate was followed with a quick walk to the car. I remember leaving my book bag at school. To a third grader the act of leaving the book bag at school overnight is a serious offense. I always wondered why eat lunch but leave the book bag?

With my book bag entrusted to the keepers of the school, we drove west down city streets. I remember the spot when I realized the reason I had been allowed to escape from school. It’s not uncommon for me to pass this spot daily. Most times I ignore the feelings but occasionally on stormy days for the soul I remember.

I remember when my sister told me what was happening. We were in the parking lot of the hospital. A parking lot that has since been filled by more rooms of the ever expanding complex. I wasn’t shocked. I already knew what was happening. Of course, when I first realized in the car I began to pray. Not a lengthy nor extremely religious prayer. It was simple, the type of prayer only the true desperate utter. A silent begging far too late for any reprieve. We walked into the hospital. I do not remember trip upstairs. I know the waiting room was filled with familiar faces. Walking into the waiting room I noticed a coffee vending machine. The type of machine that dropped a small cup and then filled by squirting awful tasting coffee through a small tube. Those machines don’t fascinate me anymore.

I remember leaving the waiting room to walk into the ICU. My father was diabetic. Basically diabetics suffer from blood clots. Usually those clots start in the toes and progress up the legs. My father’s clots began in his stomach. This is as much of the science I have cared to learn and I am very sure that what I do know is flawed. I don’t remember walking through the doors to the ICU. I remember on of the nurses asking me if I were there to see my father. Another followed with “He’s so young.” I remember the sound of the equipment that kept him alive until I could arrive. I don’t remember how he looked laying there in the hospital. The most frustrating part of loosing someone is not the loss itself but the loss of memory as time progresses. Days after the loss everything is clear and sharp with pain. Year after year pass and even though you want to remember, even dedicate yourself to the mission of remembrance, things are forgotten. Only bits and pieces remain. Then one day you question if you really cared about that person as much as you thought.

I remember being in the waiting room when the doctor entered to tell us all that my father had passed. I didn’t cry. I couldn’t let me mother see me cry then. I was now the man of the family. It’s odd how that distinction passes without any ceremony. One minute you’re the follower, learning everything you can, and then next it’s time for the big show.

I remember seeing for the first time deli ham, small bits of cheese trapped within the Swiss tunnels of the ham.  Red jello.  Maybe orange.  All soaked with tears.

What’s In a Name

Really, what’s in a name?  Aren’t we all searching for that one great (stupidly easy) accomplishment that rockets us off into that galaxy of immortals?  Look through a history book and you’ll find a list thousands of characters who are known for something they could never have predicted.  Edison’s goal wasn’t the lightbulb.  Get more examples…  If so many great souls are known for things they didn’t want to be known for then what do we aim for in our existence?  Do I follow my normal path just hoping that someday I’ll happen on one of the greatest moments in history?  Did Abraham Lincoln know as a child that every child from 1864 on would have his name along with Gettysburg Address drilled into their dreams?  Is it fate?  If I recreated Lincoln’s life, every second of it, would the measure of greatness be the same?  Would I take a place in history books?  Trick question.  Either answer brings you to the same conclusion; fate governs all.  Now I bet at least half of you are rejecting this idea right now.  At least 10% of you extreme conservatives have logged off altogether.  At least hang with me through the introduction.

I am Something Caulfield.  Real name?  Of course not.  Why Caulfield?  I like Catcher in the Rye and the characters of history have names far more eloquent than my own.  This is my journey to that stupidly easy great accomplishment (if any exists) complete with the day to day bullshit.  I hope it’s not too boring.