Lori's Lyric of the Day

Todays lyric refers to the migration of many Appalachian families  north during the 50's through the 70's. Many of my family members were among them. Some stayed, and some went home when they couldn't handle being away from home any longer.

23

c. 2003 Lori Clevenger



I put my foot on the highway like a toe in cold water
Wishing I was somewhere else, but so afraid to go
There was crying behind me, and crying inside me
But when life says it's time to leave, you just don't tell it no

So I joined the desperate caravan leaving Appalachia
I wiped the coal dust off my clothes, and the scales from my eyes
But there was no Emerald City, just a gray town with no pity
And those city nights were darker than those Logan County mines

Everybody else was heading my direction
They were looking for the promised land like me
But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions
and the asphalt's awful hot on 23

There was no work at the factory, they wouldn't hire me in a store
But I was never broke enough to stand in Welfare lines
Folks looked at me funny, I didn't talk like everybody
Soon my reasons for staying became empty alibis

Everybody else was heading my direction
They were looking for the Promised Land like me
But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions
And the asphalt's awful hot on 23

Now it's July hot in Cleveland in a room 10 bucks will buy me
The walls are smoky yellow, the window's painted closed
But I cant stop remembering when, so I'll just pack my things again
An walk back down that blacktop till I find my country road

Everybody else is heading my direction
They've been looking for the promised land like me
But the road to Hell is paved with good intentions
And the asphalt's awful hot on 23

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions
And the asphalt's awful hot on 23....

I put my foot on the highway....

Lori's Lyric of the Day

Waterloo
c.2009 Lori Clevenger

Tin cup hanging on the side of the well
Ice cream melting in a china bowl
These are the stories my memories tell
When the sun rains down from a blue heaven
Like little drops of gold.

Hidden in the attic there were dusty dreams
A secret world for little girls to find
Dolls and dresses and magazines
And Grandma's face smiling back at me
From another place and time

(chorus)
It was a big gray house with a big gray barn
And a light on a pole where the bats flew 'round
I keep a treasured picture of it in my heart
And every road in my memory leads me to
A place called Waterloo

Firefly lighting on the back of my hand
Leaves in the trees whistling old folk songs
Running 'cross the road to where the old barn stands
Theres a ghost that lives in there Mama
Hes been alone so long

(chorus 2)
It was a big round world with a big blue sky
But Summer takes wing when its time to fly
I keep a well worn picture of it in my mind
And every road in my memory leads me to..


That big gray house with the big gray barn
And the light on the pole where the bats flew 'round
I keep a treasured picture of it in my heart
And every road in my memory leads me to
A place called Waterloo..

A Long Time Gone

I took a little time away from this blog over the Summer. It isn't that I was busy, although in some ways, I was. I left a job, had some down time, started a new one, and dealt with life's little fastballs. I'm getting better at ducking. I'm working on bobbing and weaving next...stop, drop and roll is the advanced class...maybe by Christmas.

But I digress..I thought it was time to come back, add a few thoughts, and revisit my old ones. I've been taking some personal inventory lately. Summer days poke at my memories with a very sharp stick, and this Summer more than usual. I turned 47 last month. 47 is dangerously close to 50...a number which freaks me out just typing it...my 30 year High School reunion is coming up next year. I'd like to know when this happened to me...when did I become middle aged? There has been some mistake, clearly. Not only is the number of years wrong, but someone has dyed my roots gray. I do not find this the least bit amusing. And the theft in the night of the elasticity in my skin has me downright pissed off. Don't even get me started on my boobs. Well,since you brought it up..you know the week-old, forgotten, deflated balloons thumbtacked to telephone poles showing you where the birthday party was? Yea...my party's over, too...
Time has kept moving all Summer, having caught me up in its current, and carried me off, kicking and screaming, towards Winter. Life has done the same thing...Spring is over. Summer is fading. Autumn is dropping its colorful curtain all around me. I will look around soon, and it will be Winter. I will look back over the fleeting year that was my life in God's datebook, and wonder, like I am doing today, where it all went.

It's Mothers Day...

...I'm thinking of you today.
I'm remembering the moment I first knew about you, the quickening in my soul that told me you were there.
I'm remembering the joy in my heart and the excitement in my mind as I made all my plans. I imagined how I would tell your daddy and how his eyes would twinkle. How I would tell your grandparents and how they would cry. I imagined telling my friends and how they would share my joy. I pictured myself holding you, before I ever knew if you were a boy or a girl, feeling your warm little body snuggled against my breast while I breathed in the scent of your skin. These pictures are the ones I drew with my psychic hand on the blank pages of my mind, while the hand of God drew a very different one in the book of my life. He drew his picture with a pen dipped in the tears I shed the moment I lost you. The moment you escaped from my life like sand through my fingers. The moment I lost my dreams, my plans, my joy, my baby.
It's Mothers Day.
I'm thinking of you today.

Let's Skip the Fight and Just Make Up

Noone believes me when I say this, but Juergen and I have never had a fight. I honestly don't know why. We are both incredibly hardheaded people. But as a general rule, we agree on just about everything. On the rare occasions we do disagree, we end up teasing each other rather than fighting. Now this is not to say that we haven't made each other mad, or hurt one another's feelings. Its just that we wholeheartedly adhere to the sunset rule: don't let the sun set on your anger. Neither one of us can sleep if the other one is upset. It doesn't matter who's right or wrong. If we want to sleep, we have to hug each other and say "I love you". That way noone admits guilt, but by the time the hug is over we forget we were mad in the first place. Works every time.

For Juergen

The room is dark but there is just enough light from the moon coming through the window that I can see him sleeping next to me. He's on his side with his back to me, which is the way he likes to sleep. "So I don't snore in your ear," he always says with a smile. I want to touch his back but I'm afraid I'll wake him and he worked so hard today. I knew he was tired when he made love to me, but he wanted to anyway. Now I want to touch him, and ask him why he loves me so much. But I lie still and watch him sleep instead. And just as my eyes get heavy, he stirs, and shifts, and rolls over to face me with his arm draped across my stomach. And he snores in my ear.

The Good Daughter

I don't believe I'm cut out for this.

I've been caring for my mother for 12 years. She came to live with me when she and my father separated, and I was moving to Tennessee. She had suffered a heart attack, and had been diagnosed a few years earlier with colon cancer, had gone through treatment, and was recovering. She was beginning to feel well again, and we looked at Tennessee as the beginning of a new life, for her, and for me. I had alot of plans and dreams, and I was happy to have her with me to experience everything.

But Tennessee was hard. We found a nice little house to rent, and I got a job in a Tanning/Nail salon. Business was slow, however, and Mom wasn't getting any of my Dad's military retirement benefits. I took a second job, managing a mall beauty supply store for minimum wage. I worked there all day, and went to the salon at night and on weekends. We still couldn't survive on my income, and to make a long story short, we moved back to Ohio after two rough years. Dad was very frail by then, and he passed away not long after we got home. He and Mom never reconciled, and she continued to live with me. Over the next several years, she developed more health problems...heart trouble, severe hearing loss, macular degeneration which is robbing her of her sight...and just general age related maladies that have her feeling bad alot of the time.

Mom is a stubborn woman. So am I. We've been close my whole life. Being the baby, i had her sole attention a good deal of the time, and we went everywhere together. We loved to go shopping and have lunch, and just run around doing nothing. As she grew older, and I grew more independent, our mutual stubborness began to cause problems. Now, she's 84, and I'm turning 47, and the occasional differences of opinion have turned into full fledged, more-often-than-not arguments.

I try to remember that she is old, ill most of the time, and set in her ways. I try to give her the respect that I know she deserves, and that I want to give her. Most days, I succeed. But other days, when the TV is so loud that the walls are vibrating, and I've folded all the sheets incorrectly, or I've come home from work an hour earlier than I said I would (?), it just doesn't work. When we're making a 20 minute trip to the Wal-Mart across town because she doesn't like the one 5 minutes from our house, and spending 10 minutes deciding which package of paper plates to buy, I forget that I'm supposed to be patient. And when she throws my mail away because I left it on the desk instead of putting it in the drawer, I blow my top. I yell, and slam all the doors I threaten to put locks on, and come very close to getting in the car and just driving away.

I have never given birth to a baby. I've never raised a child. I joke and say, "I don't have kids, I have old people". I've had Mom with me for so long, I should be used to her quirks, and the compromises to my lifestyle that are necessary to keep her with me, but I'm not. I am only human, ONE human at that, and I get tired and frustrated, and I lose my temper. I feel like a heel when that happens. I always apologize, and she always forgives me, and then a few days later, I get something out of the kitchen cabinet without washing my hands first, and all Hell breaks loose.

I'm NOT cut out for this.

8 Hearts

Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. Thats what it says on the calendar. I have drawn a red heart on February 14th for the last 8 years. I've gone to the card store and bought two cards every year for all 8 of those years. Yes, two cards. I always buy one funny one and one serious one. I give the funny one to Juergen first, then the serious one. It's just the way i roll.

Two cards a year for 8 years equals 16 cards. I've done the math. But today, I was thinking about the hearts...the red hearts on the calendars. Putting that heart on the calendar says, "this is the day I give you my heart." But today, as I was thinking about those little red hearts, it occurred to me that I give him my heart every day. This man that I love consumes my thoughts from the time I wake up in the morning until I fall asleep at night. I have him wrapped around every blood vessel in my body. He is a part of my being, as important to me as my ability to breathe. It would be easier to lose a limb than to live without him. One day set aside to gift my heart is not nearly enough. I give it to him as if it's the first time every single day.

So lets do more math. One heart, every day, for 8 years. 365 days times 8. Plus two leap years. Let's see now, carry the 4, then the 5, add the 2 leap days...2,922. 2,922 little red hearts.

I'm going to need a bigger calendar.

The Sun Has A Dark Side

My friends all think they know me. They always say how funny i am and how happy i always seem to be. I do come across that way 99% of the time. Im in the service industry and i have to. Im a caregiver and i have to. Im all things to all people and i have to. But inside im not always that way. Ive fought depression most of my life. Usually i win. Sometimes it does. Those are the days i stay in my bathrobe and dont go out. The days i want to go to sleep and stay asleep all day because it all goes away when im sleeping. Sometimes its all i can do to haul myself out of bed and go to work. Even the people and things i love the most cant get me past it. And thats too much pressure to put on a person anyway. So i curl up under the covers and hide until responsibility hammers at me too hard to ignore. Then i get up, get dressed, and go be all things to all people again.

Only 11 Months 'Til Christmas!

I'm glad the holidays are over. I used to look so forward to them when I was a child. On some level, i still do; it's the part of me that still believes every day is going to be blue skied and sunny, the part of me that is certain that people would never be mean to me. I'm always wrong about those things, and I'm wrong about the holidays, too. I always think I'm going to make THIS particular Christmas the BEST Christmas ever, and that I'll wake up Christmas morning with that same feeling of excitement and anticipation that I had when I was little. I never do.

I know what it is. I'm still waiting for Santa.

I'm waiting for something wonderful to be given to me, or done for me, that only something or someone magical could create. I really don't mean a gift. I mean a FEELING, an EXPERIENCE. An EMOTION. One that you only feel on a day like Christmas. Somehow, it never quite happens. The one thing I want is the one thing I don't get. There's always that post-Christmas letdown that inevitably comes. For me, the adrenaline rush of Christmas morning is more ominous than joyful, because I know what I'll feel afterwards...

...like Santa didn't come.

Juergen

I was floundering when i met him. I was 39 years old and stuck in some alternative reality. I got up every morning, fixed breakfast, made sure mom was set for the day, then went to work. I came home, got dinner, made sure mom was set for the evening, and went to bed. Mom, job, housework, and...nothing else. That was my life. Then one day Juergen brought his mom in to have her hair done. I havent been the same since. I read an interview with Katherine Hepburn once. She said that meeting Spencer Tracy was like being hit over the head with a skillet. I know that skillet. It conked me on the head 7 years ago. It explains alot about me to say love is like a head injury. It makes you confused and forgetful. It also makes you euphoric. It isnt a bad head injury. And in my case, i get beaned by that skillet every day.

He was born in Germany in 1954. Ive seen pictures of him as a child in his leiderhosen and he looks like a Hummel figurine. His parents, Guenter and Marlene, decided to come to the states when Juergen was 3. Guenter had an aunt and uncle who'd emigrated some years earlier. He came over first and was here nearly a year, finding a job and a place to live. Then he sent for Marlene and Juergen. The photos taken at the airport show Marlene looking so sad. She was very close to her family and didnt want to leave. Juergen is with her, one hand in hers and the other holding a little suitcase. They settled here in Ohio. Marlene learned english by watching soap operas. She and Guenter are so special to me. The minute they met me it was like i was their daughter. And when i think of what my life would be if they hadnt brought their little boy to America, words cant explain my gratitude.

Juergen is 55 years old. Hes 5'9, around 185 lbs. His hair is gray and he has a mustache. He isnt tall or dark but hes handsome. And he seems big to me. He carries himself like a much bigger man. Some people find him intimidating. He drives a truck for an industrial gas company. But if you saw him on the street youd think he was in law enforcement or the military. When hes with me i feel like noone will bother me. Im 5'3" and a little on the chubby side. I'd dated several men before i met juergen. I never felt comfortable with any of them. Theyed put their arms around me and it didnt feel natural. I felt big and fat and i never knew where to put my arms. On our first date juergen walked me to my door. I lived out in the country and some deer ran across the field behind my house. We watched them scamper away, then he turned to me and pulled me into his arms and kissed me like id never been kissed before. I felt like i could fit in his pocket. And i knew just where to put my arms.

Dad

When i think of my dad i think of the way he smelled. That wouldnt normally be strange. Lots of people remember their fathers aftershave. But my dad seldom wore aftershave. He smelled like Lucky Strike cigarettes and paint thinner. My dad was a graphic artist, or as he called himself, "an old sign man". He designed and painted signs for over 60 years. He helped develop techniques that are used commonly in the industry now. He was also a cartoonist and illustrator. I was so proud of him. But he didnt always know it. We werent close. We never had father-daughter talks. I didnt run to meet him when he came home from work. He spent his time at home alone in the den in his lazy boy, reading voraciously and watching the news. He seemed distant to me. He got up at 5 in the morning and went to bed at 8 in the evening. He hadnt always been that way. But the handsome soldier whod been so in love with the pretty hillbilly waitress had turned into a tired old man who didnt want to come home at night. He wasnt in love with her anymore. He just wanted to be left alone. So we did. I used to try to talk to him. I was artistic, i wanted to go to art school. I wanted to learn at his feet. But he was never interested. He used to talk about his coworkers kids and how smart and talented they were. But i never heard him brag about me or my brothers or sister. I wanted him to be proud of me. But i dont know if he was. Then i found out he was cheating on my mother. I remember my mother putting me in the car late one night and going out to look for him. When she saw his car in front of a womans house, she hit the gas and turfed the womans yard. She said it was an accident. I was 12. My dad moved out after that. My parents separated for 6 weeks but they reconciled. When i say reconciled i mean they lived under the same roof. But my mom became guarded, suspicious, and sick. And my dad became withdrawn, secretive, and depressed. I was angry with him for the way he treated my mother. I didnt speak to him for nearly 3 yrs. He developed enphysema while i was living in Nashville. He and my mother had separated again but she and i and my sister were with him when he died. It took 3 days. He wanted no treatment. He wanted to die. They gave him morphine and we waited. The last day i whispered in his ear that i loved him and forgave him. He was not awake. But i think hed been waiting for that. He died that evening.
I was driving home from work one day a couple of years ago. Something made me think of my dad. When i did, my car was suddenly filled with the smell of cigarettes and paint thinner. Thats the truth.

Lori's Lyric of the Day

"TORN"

c.2009 Lori Clevenger theres a box of photos in my mothers closet i went there looking for my dad i never found him but i found a picture that someone had torn in half all that was left was a faded image of me and mom when i was five you could tell someone had been beside us but someone tore him from our side i wonder what he looked like was he there when i was born i want so much to see the entire picture but so much of it is torn i know when he was young he served his country his pension paid my way through school but mama never liked to talk about him and i observed her silent rule but i have freckles, and a certain cowlick i have a dimple when i grin ive never seen these things in my whole family could i have gotten them from him? i wonder what his dreams were and what he went through in the war i want so much to see the entire picture but so much of it is torn i put the box back in my mothers closet but i kept the picture out mom just passed away and never told me ill never get my answers now the picture has one rough and three smooth edges i cant know who was there before hes just a phantom arm around us all the rest of him his torn i wonder why he left us was there someone he wanted more? i want so much to see the entire picture but so much of it is torn i want so much to see the entire person but so much of him is torn

How We Met

I looked up from my clients nails the second i heard the door open. In walked a little lady with a cane. Then i saw the man who had ahold of her elbow, guiding her toward the shampoo bowl. I saw his hair first. Salt with just a dash of pepper, and a mustache. Then i saw his eyes. Deep clear brown with an even darker rim. They smiled at me before he did. I felt my face get hot and a shiver ripple over my body. It was the man from my dream. The dream id had recurrently since id moved back home. I quickly looked back down and tried to file my clients nail and realized my own hands were shaking. I smelled his after shave in the cool breeze his body created as he slowly walked by my desk. "i think ill sit and wait for you today mom" he said in a deep voice that vibrated my soul, then sat down in the reception area directly in front of me. With my head still down i lifted my eyes. They connected with his. And they smiled at me again.

we stared at each other like that for 3 months before he ever spoke to me. then one winter day, after a rather substantial snow, i was in the break room eating lunch when he walked in to get a cup of water. he struck up a conversation by asking me how i liked the snow. "i'm not a fan", i said, laughing nervously. i couldnt believe he was talking to me! "did your husband shovel your driveway?" he asked?

now, a normal woman with no self-confidence issues would have known what he was doing right away. but this is ME we're talking about, so it never even crossed my mind. "No", i said, "its just me and mom, so i did it myself". then for some reason, my face turned bright red, and i got up from the table and said, "oh well, back to work!" and rushed out of the room.

he didnt come back to the salon for 3 whole weeks. i thought i'd blown it.

i hadnt.

Random Recipe From My Mothers Cookbook, c.1953

Cucumbers In Sour Cream
(which is also a traditional German dish called "Gerkensalat" which Juergen's mother makes, and I LOVE)


1 large cucumber, sliced THIN*
1 c. thick sour cream
1 med. white onion, sliced THIN*
3 tblsp. vinegar
1/4 tsp. salt
1/8 tsp. white pepper
* in Mom Lorenz's version, the onion and cuke are so thin you can read through them. a mandolin or food processor would be helpful to achieve this.

combine all ingredients and chill at least an hour. serves 4.

Mom

My mother is 82 yrs old. Shes 4'11". She used to be 5'4" but osteoporosis will take you down a few notches. Shes nearly deaf and going blind. She drives me completely nuts and i love her. She looked like a movie star when i was little. She was so pretty with her pixie haircut in her pedal pushers and black flats. She was a coal miners daughter who married a soldier from chicago and felt like a fish out of water every day afterwards. She had 2 sons and 2 daughters. I was the baby, 9 years after the other 3. She and i were always inseperable. My favorite memory is my mom making apple butter sandwiches, cutting the crusts off for me, then putting cream, sugar and a little coffee in one of my toy teacups. Then we'd sit and watch Search For Tomorrow together. She was and is my rock, my angel, my friend. She lost both her sons to auto accidents. She lost her parents and 5 siblings. Now shes a widow. I take her shopping and to the doctor and help her with her housework and bills. Im the parent now. But she will always be the boss. And my friend.

Gordon and Ruby, Pt. 1

He sat in the booth in the back of the diner, with a hot cup of of coffee and some toast on the table in front of him. He stood out in the bustle of the diner in his crisply pressed Air Force uniform. His dark brown hair was cut close to his head except for the deep wave at his forehead. He had brought the morning newspaper with him and he held it open in front of him. But he wasnt reading it. He was using it to conceal the fact that he was watching the girl behind the counter. His eyes twinkled as they followed her every move. He thought she was the prettiest thing hed ever seen. Her hair was dark blonde, short and curly, and she was petite, and slim. She wore a uniform too but hers was pink, with a white apron. She moved quickly like a nesting bird, wiping down the counter with one hand and setting the shakers straight with the other, pausing occasionally to pick up some coins left behind for her. Another waitress said something to her and she laughed, a hearty full bodied laugh that went through him like a ringing bell. He decided he was in love. 1953 was going to be a good year.