Check this out.

http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=vOhf3OvRXKg

A friend sent it to me on Sunday. I watched it over and over, captured by the passion of the artist and the appearing and vanishing images on the unlikely inspiring medium of an illuminated sand table.

The artist, "Ukraine's Got Talent", Kseniya Simonova, 24, with her lighted candle and hand strokes, offers her interpretation of how ordinary people were affected by the German invasion during World War II. The Great Patriotic War, as it’s called in Ukraine, resulted in one in four of the population being killed with eight to 11 million deaths out of a population of 42 million.

I didn’t have to think while watching Simonova. I am not an expert on Ukrainian history. I am not sure if the faces that appear in the sand are political or metaphorical. I cannot translate the words that she writes at the end. Watching this I only know what I feel; without specific historical details, I plainly know what I know.

From commerce command central, my daughter updates our household on the latest and greatest available for your shopping pleasure and her enjoyment. She has exhausted the computer keys surfing the websites of Target and Gamestop, thoughtfully offering a comparative analysis of where I can save the most money in fulfilling her Christmas list which extends well beyond what she has already formally requested from Santa. Oh … to be nine again. ~

When I was a kid, I began my tradition in November upon the hallowed arrival of the Sears & Roebuck Wish Book. Insert opera music here in reverence as there was no finer piece of literature ever published than those glue bound pages of toys and treasures.

Honor.

The USS New York constructed from steel rescued from the fallen twin towers sailed up the Hudson River last week. She stopped near Ground Zero to offer a 21 gun salute.

Character.

In 1945, my father lied about his age to join the US Air Force. I have a picture of him hanging from a train bound to Tucson, the farthest he ever traveled from his North Carolina home. He looks like a young Elvis in that picture. The Air Force made him into a man.

My neighborhood goes full tilt at Halloween. My daughters and their friends tear across yards at top speed to ring doorbells and land bodacious candy hauls. They return home to download individual candy baskets into the “mother-bucket” and then go back for more. My kids have it easy … which is why I worry about them. I think that they, along with the whole lot of their collective friends, are pansies. How can you even appreciate Halloween if you have never had to cross enemy lines through yards protected by mangy dogs risking life and limb for un-x-rayed caramel apples and razor blade laden rice crispy treats?

***

I grew up out in the country. I am not sure if it was some type of redneck prenup, but for some strange reason, my dad was designated Halloween parent. It was the only holiday that he actively participated in. For the rest of the year, he was in the outer perimeter of our lives watching, eating, and yelling.

My siblings and I piled into my parents’ Chevy Bel-Air and with my Father at the wheel we charged down the country roads into the darkness. Those Halloween nights seemed both delicious and dangerous, mostly because we were with my Father and he often danced on the ledge of control. He rolled down his window a crack’s width so that he could blow out Pall Mall non-filtered exhaust as we stopped at houses of friends where the kids got a box of animal crackers or a candy corn and Tootsie Roll combo packed into a Glad sandwich bag.

Our trick-or-treating finale was with my Grandparents. I remember being cold, tired, and relieved to see my Granny’s smiling face. She always acted as if she didn’t know who we were. One year, my brother ripped off his cowboy hat and bank robber bandana to tearfully say, “Don’t be afraid, Granny. It’s just us.” What a doofass thing to do.

Dear Diary,

1.  I was excited when I got carded buying wine at Target. The cashier explained that she “had” to put in a date to over ride the computer. She has to do the same thing for cough syrup. It wasn’t that I didn’t look old enough; it was just a rule. Severe buzz kill. 2.  I just learned that most birds migrate at night when the atmosphere is quiet. 3. I was with my college roommate on Saturday and we got into a debate about how old we are. She spent this entire year thinking she was 43. She is 42. 4. In Sunday School, my 9-year-old daughter wrote a letter to God. She wouldn’t let me read it. I am worried that the letter is incriminating me for something. I casually mentioned to Ryann that I would be happy to buy the stamp and mail the letter. She rolled her eyes and told me she that letters to God don’t require postage and that she would rather mail it from school because she knew I would read it or … get this, I would try to write in MY side of the story. 

Scattered about the table, marked with checks, stars, and maybes was my 14-year-old’s high school club list. Experience has taught me not to hover. It is better to fake indifference so not to discourage potential good intentions of the peculiar and moody inhabitant of my house ... who resembles a young human but is in reality a teenage mutant ninja daughter.

As Riley monologued through the pros and cons of  B-Movie Club, Bollywood Club, Book Club, Booster’s Club, Chess Club, Choral Madrigals, and Crossstitchers, … she paused at the Ds. “Debate Club,” she said decidedly.

That Riley would consider the Debate Club is good and bad news. Good in that she would certainly excel and shine, bad in that, I am not sure she needs to hone her debating skills while still living under my roof. 

At the beginning of August, around 3:00 am, I woke to a rumbling. It was a vibrating sort of growling sensation. Somewhere between the land of slumber and total wakefulness, I determined that I must be sleeping with my BlackBerry. When the growl repeated, I decided that no, I wasn’t sleeping with my BlackBerry, I must have swallowed it! Panic. How would I check my email, see who was calling, and maintain my status as ruler of the universe? It took me several seconds to fully realize that it was my tummy that was growling. There I was at 3:00 am, confused, hungry, and in desperate need of some time away.

     A few weeks later we went away … to a little cabin on the French Broad River. Away from the hustle and bustle of work and life, removed from the distractions and demands, and okay, I am even going to type it out loud here, addiction brought to you by your nearest cell phone tower.

As my daughter Riley and I pulled up to her first day of high school, she fired off the following litany of sentences. I did not answer. With the teenage species, it is better to avoid direct eye contact and treat conversation as rhetorical.

Riley:

Oh my God, why did I wear plaid? No one else is wearing plaid.

I hate my braces. Why do I have braces? They just make my already huge lips stick out farther. The only thing bigger than my lips is my nose and, oh yeah, my football field of a forehead. Thanks for your genetics, Mom.

Okay, there’s another girl in plaid. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. I hope I have everything.

Me:

Baby, get out now and have a great day. I love you.

Riley:

Bye Mom.

And there she went. Just like that, my firstborn, a freshman in high school.

On Saturday, I was headed to meet my brother, Andy, to do a Charity Bike Ride. The money raised went towards cancer research. Cool. The ride was hosted in our hometown. Even cooler. It was early and my youngest daughter and I stopped at a gas station in Carthage (the place where I grew up, the small town of which I am a native, the place of my formative years, the county where I now own what was once my parent’s farm and pay taxes, you get the picture) for a potty break. Gas was more expensive than in Greensboro, but I thought to myself ... I should support this local economy and fill up here.  My car wasn’t even registering light-on, warning-bell-rang, not-many-miles-until-you-run-out empty, which is usually how I roll.

I slid my credit card and started the pump which I thought would stop automatically like all normal, well working pumps do and went inside the store. It was when I came out of the bathroom that two attendants and a customer alerted me that the gas had “done run’t over.” Outside, my neighbor gas pumper told me he stopped it for me and only $4 had spilled onto the concrete. I went back inside to pay for my bottled water and apologized to the smirking clerk. When I returned outside, a police officer stood by my car. (No, I am not making this up.) Deputy Fife said, “Ma’am, if you abandon your vehicle again while pumping gas, I will have to issue you a citation.” It did not help that my disposition that Deputy Fife was shorter than me and about the age of Doogie Houser.