Topic: Car(s)

Author: Chris Dunn

“Mr. Dunn, name a car.”

Doris the Dodge Dart. A ’65 Mustang. The Bandit’s Trans Am.

“You mean to say you can’t think of a single car?”

A Woodie station wagon. The DeLorean. A dirty white van covered in rust spots…

“Seriously? Not one?”

I could see what Mr. Carey was doing. He was trying to make a point about description in writing, that simply saying, “the man drove a car” wasn’t sufficient, because everyone thinks of a different car – or, in my case, several different cars – but I was mute. Nothing would come out of my mouth. His terrifyingly intimidating eyes did nothing to help draw the images in my brain to my lips. What if they laughed – the other students? What if my answer wasn’t cool enough, good enough, right? Worse still, what if he, Mr. Carey found my answer insufficient? As dozens of cars plucked from media, my family history and just casual observation, tumbled through my mind, my tongue swelled in my mouth and refused to speak. This was high school and the Demon of Worthiness had me by the throat.

This wasn’t my first run-in with this particular Demon. Years earlier my father had gifted me his old manual typewriter, the kind with the belt of ink and the carriage return that goes bzzzzzt-DING! You had to be extra careful because each mistake meant going back, retyping the letter while holding a corrective tape dangerously close to the slamming key, then typing the correct letter over the top. People can brag about their typing speeds nowadays, but how do you really stand up to the days of manual. Still, I loved the thing. I was going to be a writer and this was going to be my instrument. I sat in the basement at the covered bumper pool table in the “red room” and banged away for hours, slowly correcting each mistake as they arose, planning out the end of each line lest I run out of space, waiting for the paper to pop lose to inform me I had just completed another page of my great novel. I think I had maybe four pages done when I brought it to my mother, she read it and smiled. She said it was great, but I pressed her, “What do you really think? You can be honest. A writer has to learn to take criticism.”

“Well,” she added hesitantly. “It’s a little derivative of a lot of stuff…”

CRUSHED Like a weight dropped from a passing fighter jet landed smack dab on my head. I tried to shake it off, but the story never saw another page. Derivative? I didn’t know then to say, that everything’s derivative. There  are no truly original ideas particularly to a young writer. We start writing what we know, and we struggle to find our voice along the way. What’s original about my writing is me. But no, I’d failed. I wasn’t worthy. I heard the demon cackle in my brain along with his close companion, The Demon of Outside Validation, and committed to working harder next time, but also to never showing anyone my work until I knew it measured up to an impossible standard.

Eventually the ribbon ran out and the typewriter was retired in favor of a word processor that stored my papers on tiny discs for editing and eventual typing out as if a ghost banged on the keys for me. Until it was ready for print the text appeared on a tiny screen about the size of a pager’s read-out. The process was type, print, edit, correct, print, then repeat until acceptable. But be very careful, one misspelling was a C, so was one run-on sentence, one faulty subject-verb agreement, one comma out of place. Two and you failed, regardless of content. High school English was brutal

So, is it odd that I felt that there could be a wrong answer to a question that asked my opinion? And let us not forget, I’m a Freshman, sitting in a class of all boys, all ready to mock and tear down each other at the first sign of weakness, difference. And in that moment where I sat frozen and mute in my chair before the Mr. Carey’s glaring eyes and the sniggering chorus of my classmates, it all mattered so much! Their approval, my validation, my inclusion in this new community. The safest answered seemed to be, say nothing. Don’t commit. And so, I didn’t.

This is what this blog is all about, putting the sword to those demon voices of doubt that keep us from sharing ourselves with the world. You were blessed with a perspective. That makes you worthy! Don’t let any voice tell you differently.

A red, Ford coupe…

A green, convertible with a clown horn affixed to the rearview mirror…

A 1992 manual transmission, red, Nissan Sentra with no AC and a non-functional tape deck...

Kit from Nightrider…

James Bond’s Aston Martin with an ejector seat…

Ben…

Maximillian…

A midnight, powder blue Ford Escort…

A Wedding

A wedding should be about the couple getting married. It should be special and unique to them. The wedding that I felt fit this description the most was my son Evan's wedding.

Evan has been a theatre person since his freshman year of high school. While we thought he would be perfect for the stage, he found his passion behind the scenes, working on the Stage and Building Crew and the Running Crew. He went on to study theatre in college, where he met his wife in of course, a theatre class. At the time, both of them were in other relationships, but one fateful night at a Halloween party, they reconnected.

Being a technical theatre director, Evan had the connections to pull off their theatre-themed wedding. The ceremony took place in a high school theater. The ceremony was made up of monologues and songs from musicals. The lights, sound, and filming were run by his former students. The stage manager, also a former student, flew in from New York where she was working professionally, just to assist with the day. From a stuck zipper on a bridesmaid's dress to a broken boutonniere to wasp stings to keeping everyone on time, we kept her busy and she kept everything running smoothly. After all, rehearsals do not prepare everyone for everything that can and will happen on the big day.

As with many days, this one was happy, yet I was sad. I kept thinking of the people who should be there, but weren't. Three important people were missing. My parents helped me raise Evan. I was a single mom for his first seven years. I lived at home. Evan was the first grandchild and held a very special place in their hearts, as they did and do in his. Both passed away within eight weeks of each other in 2006. Somehow it didn't seem right that they weren't with us at this important event. They would have been so proud of him.

The other missing person was my birth mom, Dee. She was also a theatre person and would have loved this wedding. She had passed just a few months earlier. Although we only had ten months from the time I met her until her passing, she had attended one of Evan's shows in the very theater where Evan was getting married.

I knew that Evan was also missing his grandparents-and not only those three, but his paternal grandparents as well. My in-laws were in poor health and in their 90's and couldn't attend. Only my birth mom's husband was able to attend. Evan was so pleased that he would be there and made sure that he had a special place to sit.

The day before the wedding, I had given him a medal with all six of his grandparents' initials engraved on it. He wore it around his neck.

After the ceremony, I had a moment that I will remember forever. It was the first time that all of my siblings were in the same space. My older brother Mark, who I grew up with, was finally going to meet my birth siblings, Bridgid, Chris, and Marty. I knew that it might be the only time I would have all of them together. After quick introductions, I asked everyone to pose for one photo. Other families have many pictures of all of the kids, but not me. I just wanted one. My sister-in-law took the picture in the back of the theater. To this day it is one of my most treasured possessions.

The reception was a typical open bar wedding reception. We closed the five-hour reception with some family and friends singing together on the dance floor. Luckily there was a shuttle back to the hotel where we spent the night. The next morning while the newlyweds headed to Log Heaven in Gatlingburg for their honeymoon, the rest of the family got in a van and drove to Orlando for a much needed vacation.

Topic: A Wedding

Topic: A Wedding

It wasn’t the first time for either of us.  It wasn’t even the second time for me, but we both were determined it would be our last one.  We had dated several months when he proposed to me on New Year’s Eve.  I guess technically he proposed on New Year’s Day 2017.  He had made reservations at a nice hotel and we had gotten all gussied up, had a fancy dinner, and listened to some live jazz in the hotel’s penthouse bar overlooking the city.   He later told me he was going to try to propose in some grand public gesture, perhaps involving the band leader, but it never felt right.  Jan is a physician, one of the smartest men I’ve even known.  He is soft spoken, but he has made me laugh out loud at least once a day for as long as I’ve known him.  This kind, nerdy quirky man had quickly become my favorite person on the planet.  (Still is.) 

About 1am we made our way to our hotel room.  I flopped onto the bed and tossed off my shoes and almost removed my wig.  I have alopecia, so I wear wigs in public most of the time.  I was glad I had kept my hair on my head once I realized what was happening.  Jan, my boyfriend, was on his knees beside the bed digging through his suitcase.  He walked over to me on his knees and presented me with a white gold Claddagh ring with an emerald and tiny diamonds. 

He tentatively asked, “So, you wanna marry this crazy doctor?”  

I was 52 and he was 59 on St. Patrick’s Day 2017, our wedding day.  It was one of the top ten days of my life, right up there with the births of my children.   What I remember most of about it was my level of happiness and peace and the unblinking, unfaltering feeling of hope.  Some day when I’m a very old woman living in a nursing home, I will remember the day and it will comfort me. 

It wasn’t like we spent a lot of money on the day.  The biggest expenditure was a new wig for me- a long wavy reddish brown human hair piece.  I got my dress on eBay for under $100.  It was knee length and lacy with ¾ length sleeves to cover my tattoos.  It came with a stiff slip under the skirt that made it flare out.  This would have been perfect if I were going to be having a first dance and I’d need it to flare out as I twirled in front of our guests.  But there were no guests.   We decided that this time around we would strip things down to the essentials.  Me. Him. A minister.  Okay, and a sound tech/photographer/videographer person. 

We went to this little chapel in Gatlinburg, Tennessee.  The night before we checked into a cute little cabin in the Smoky Mountains with a hot tub, a big screen tv, and a porch swing.  Jan wore a three- piece suit with a tie with green stripes and a jaunty matching pocket square. I wore green jewelry.  These nods to the holiday were the closest we came to a theme/color scheme.    

We drove together to the chapel at 3:30. My dress was in a garment bag and they had a little dressing room for the brides.  I remember the minister was in his seventies with a soft southern drawl.  He kind of resembled a shorter meatier version of Colonel Sanders.  I don’t remember the vows or too much of the words he said to us. 

We went to great efforts to have the right music for our tiny ceremony.  Jan made a recording of himself playing a piano piece by modern Italian composer Ludovico Einaudi.  It was called “Il Due” or “Two Rivers.”  He did a flawless job and the piece was over four minutes long, but I wanted to walk down that 20-foot aisle to some beautiful music even if he was the only one who really cared to see it.  I walked to the meet Jan and the minister by the time the first few measure of the piece were played.  So, we just joined hands and looked at each other.  And then we both started to cry-happy tears. 

We had to pay extra because the next song that was played lengthened our ceremony to over 15 minutes.  I had gone to a recording studio and sang a cover of “Love Song” by The Cure with an accompaniment track.  These recordings were our wedding gifts to each other and neither could hear the other’s recording until the big day.  We cried some more. 

The sound tech lady took a few professional pictures of us afterwards, but my favorite wedding picture was the selfie we took in the car before we drove to downtown Gatlinburg for our “reception.”  We had dinner at The Melting Pot, a chain restaurant that serves a five-course meal consisting of various fondues.  We parked in the community lot and walked through all the tourists, the line for the sky lift, the shops that sold fudge and air-brushed t-shirts, in all our wedding finery.  People clapped for us and gave us high fives as we walked past. 

We kept saying things to each other afterward like, “Wow, we did it.  We really did it.  We’re married.  This is so cool,” and “I love you so much.”  And now a year and a half later we’re still saying them. We were supposed to receive a video of the ceremony, but something went wrong, and we didn’t get it.  It’s okay.  I much prefer the video of my favorite day ever that I play and replay in my min

Topic: A Wedding

Author: Chris Dunn

Las Vegas airport thrums with potential even at 2 am. As I wander the halls and ride the moving sidewalks, lights everywhere beckon to me offering one last chance to gamble away any few coins I might have managed to hold onto would I were a gambler on this trip. Lucky for me, all I want to do at this point is stay standing until my flight arrives in an hour. I’m dead on my feet having been awake for nearly 40 hours at this point. Every muscle and fiber urges me to just find my gate, sink down on a bench and rest my eyes, but I know that game. I know that sleep is my foe, and that until my ass hits seat 22a, I’ve just have to keep moving. Another red-eyed traveler passes me in the hall, and we exchange nods and expressions which seem to ask, “And how did you find yourself here?”

A little over 48 hours ago my phone rang, “Okay, you’re going!” Drew voice is excited, but years of knowing that voice reveal a hesitancy before he even continues with. “Now, the thing is…”

The thing was, Kit was getting married. Kris Gates, one of our oldest and dearest friends had finally found a woman willing to put up with him on a day-in-day-out basis - though that alone wasn’t sufficient to necessitate marriage. Both Kit and Laura, his beloved, were both anti-establishment, hippy-types who for the first years of their joining had never seen a need a to “get the State involved”. But recent medical troubles had demonstrated how much extra red tape the State can put in your way, if you’ve never taken the time to have things set down officially on paper. Rather than continue to deal with this plastic hassle, Kit and Laura sent out the invites. Save the Day, two weeks from now, in Vegas!

Both the location and the timing were a major impediment. Everyone wanted to attend, but given the short warning time, and my then current state of unemployment, we contented ourselves with throwing them a monster wedding shower. Frank rolled out a major sound system, a thorough invite list of all their friends and a surprising display with fire dancers. It was a thing of beauty and something to remember, and all I thought I would see of their nuptials. That is until I got Drew’s call.

I listened stunned as he lay out the details. “I’ve got you booked in at Luxor, but only for one night. You’ll need to check out the day of the wedding, store your bags with the bellhop, go to the wedding and reception, then book it to the airport once the festivities are over. I paid for you flight and your room. You don’t need to pay me back. You just have to go since I can’t. Your plane leaves tomorrow.”

It all seemed like such a rush, and a lot of effort, most of which I would endure alone. “Why?” I asked.

“Because, one of us has to be there!”

He was right. We’d known Kit too long. We’d heard the chimes at midnight together more times than we could count. The thought that his marriage - even one largely out of bureaucratic necessity – would go down without a single Pit member present… It was unconscionable. “Okay,” I resigned. “I’ll do it.”

And that’s how I found myself wandering the halls of the Luxor while the wedding party did prep and pictures. I had no room and all my things were stowed except for a single book, I carried with me. Unemployed, I had no money to gamble, and Vegas offers very few places to sit quietly and read. In the end, I settled for the spot playing the least annoying, loud music and tried to focus on the words of my book hard enough to stay awake.

Mercifully, the event finally began. It was much more elaborate than I had envisioned. No Elvis impersonator. No drive-thru. They walked down a short aisle in formal attire. Laura had a full bridal gown. For all the times I’d heard Kit scoff at the institution, when it came to be his time, they didn’t shirk. I was coaxed into giving a brief toast at the reception and threw together some thoughts I’d been mulling over that day covering all the random events, decisions and people that had brought the two of them together. I can write a very thorough and detailed paper explaining how they owed their happiness directly to the presidency of George Bush. We all laughed and toasted the happy couple, then it was off to fetch my bags and wander the airport.

The plane to Cincy was nearly empty, and I stretched out across all three seats, but sleep wouldn’t come until I was all the way home, so I lay there listening to the thrum of the engines, dozing in and out, as I reflected on how glad I was to have made it for what turned out to be such a special day.

Topic: Church

Author: Chris Dunn

I don’t remember the kid’s name. He was only with our class for a year, and maybe not an entire year at that. At the time, he seemed slow and angry, the kind of boy I had learned it was safer to avoid, so his name didn’t stick, only his face – and barely that. He might have dropped fully from my memory to languish in the bin of forgotten classmates who’s faces now stare up at me tauntingly from grade-school yearbooks, except for one bizarre exchange we had during church. For the purpose of this story I’ll call him Steve, since there were never any Steves in my grade school years. Not that I remember anyway…

Seating in our church at St. Margaret Mary was very easily regimented. The kneelers were spaced so that each would comfortably support a pair of students. If you don’t know what a kneeler is, you’ve obviously never been to a catholic mass. Stand, sit, stand, kneel, sit, kneel stand, sit. There was a script to follow and corresponding blocking that we were all taught at a young age, and the kneeler was the cushioned, fold-down bench provided to keep us from cracking our knees against the hard stone. Now some kids found that it also provided a comfortable place to rest ones feet either during long periods of standing or as if kicking back on the world’s lamest recliner during the few seated periods. This was strictly forbidden by the nuns! And while I never held much truck with the actual mass, the one thing I could do was follow rules. There was a particular joy I found in adhering to regulations my peers chose to flaunt. It made me feel good in oh-so-superior, hall-monitory type of way. So, “No standing or resting your feet on the kneeler” – No problem.

I see now that I must have seemed like quite the little suck-up. My classmates had their sly moves down, loudly replacing the kneeler after use only to ease it silently to floor with an extended foot once seated. Looks of admonishment did nothing to dissuade their quest for comfort and rebellion, and once down, the kneeler was easy to hold in place with a firm foot. I needed a better strategy and it came it the form of a simple machine – the wedge. In this instance, the wedge was my foot, placed between the raised kneeler and the bottom of the pew. Once so inserted, no amount of casual effort could dislodge it. My classmates would glare at me, and I would smile back or ignore them, wrapped snuggly in my blanket of smug, self-righteousness. No one liked sitting next to me. This became the game. Could you get the kneeler back down, quickly and quietly before I could get my wedge in place? And of course the Catholic mass affords several rounds of game play for the players to first – learn there’s a game on – and then to develop their strategy to thwart me. Since I was paying very little attention to anything but the game I had created, few could challenge me.

Then Steve came. He arrived at church late that day. Either he was in trouble or came from outside the diocese. I’m nearly certain he wasn’t catholic. I don’t think he took communion, and he never sang. Mass was well underway when he dropped into the pew next to me sparing me one of his, “don’t mess with me glares” before leaning back with a look of annoyed disinterest. As the mass moved through its paces, and I sat back after the post-communion kneeling period, Steve tried to place the kneeler on the floor. Mass was almost over, it was time to truly kick back and give it the full blow-off, but I was there ahead of him, wedge in position. His casual effort thwarted, Steve glared at me, screaming daggers in the silence of the reflection. “Give it up!” his gaze demanded. “What’s your problem?” he wanted to know. But he knew the rules, knew he was technically in the wrong. He just hadn’t known he was playing my game.

If you know me, you know that I enjoy nothing so much as winning. His angry glares were like cheers from the crowd. I wasn’t about to back down. The Steve did something no other student had had the audacity to try. He bent down and gripped the kneeler in both hands and pulled, pulled with all his might, pulled until I feared he’d break every bone in my foot. This violated the decorum of the church and all the rules of the game. I would have gladly yielded the point to his out-of-the-box strategy, but there was one problem, my foot was stuck. There was no way to dislodge now, not with all the pressure he was applying. All I could do was stare in disbelief and pain. And he stared back, in rage! He seemed so mad, and suddenly I didn’t feel so smug. When he released the kneeler, I thought for sure it was free his hands to deck me. Punch me out, right there in the church. But instead, he snorted like an angry bull, jumped to his feet and left.

I sat there stunned. “You can do that?” Just leave church… I never would have thought to. As I eased my foot out and wiggled my toes to see they were all still present and functioning, I felt a weird regret. Sure I had won, but why? Steve was such an outsider and this faith meant nothing to him, why did I take such perverse pleasure in enforcing a rule I didn’t even agree with? In that moment he seemed very angry, but he also seemed lost. Kind of sad and alone. He left school soon after that. I’ve always wondered what demons he was fighting that day. I’ve always wanted to apologize for not realizing my brief victory wasn’t worth denying him a moment of respite from the fight.

Church

 Church seems to be more about perceptions and misconceptions. I was baptized and raised Catholic and identify myself as such. While I don't agree with quite a few beliefs of the church, I do believe in  God and Jesus. To me, church is so much more than a building or a place of worship. Church is about the people. It is finding God in other and all places.

One thing that I find stressful, even as an adult, is going to mass. I'm not sure why since once I'm sitting in a pew, I find a sense of peace. For some reason the thought of getting ready and actually going to mass gives me anxiety. Nothing tragic has ever happened during church or while I attended mass, so I cannot explain why I have these emotions.

This carries over into my job. As a Catholic school teacher, I have to take my students to the weekly mass. The priests always want the kids to participate in the liturgy. On these occasions, I feel more like a watchdog. Trying to make sure that everyone is acting accordingly takes away from my own experience.

When I'm not with my students at mass, I do find a serenity sitting there. I will admit that as hard as I try, it is difficult to focus on what is being preached. Often I find myself thinking about life instead. Maybe it is one of the few places I can go and be alone with my thoughts.

A few months ago, I had to go on a one-day retreat for my job. Again, I dreaded going. There were talks given by a priest and in between these, everyone had time to reflect. We could take a walk, go into the chapel, or find a priest for reconciliation. I chose to take walks.

In the afternoon, we sat in the chapel for over an hour for adoration. Adoration is when God is supposed to be physically present in the church. There is prayer and there are some songs, but then there is time to sit quietly and pray.

As I sat there, I asked God to help me decide what I wanted and needed to do with my career and in my life. Signing the Archdiocese's contract was difficult for me. I don't agree with many of the items included. When my good friends, Michele and Leslie, got married and my daughter sang at their wedding, I couldn't post anything on social media because it is against my contract. While I don't use social media to discuss my political views, it annoys me that I can't do it if I want to because someone may think that my more liberal views go against my contract.

As time passed, I realized that I needed to teach one more year because I had made a commitment to a friend to be there for her kids. After that, who knows what will happen. Another realization that came to me was that I needed to start writing again. When I was younger, I always wanted to be a writer and had even written for some newspapers as a free lancer, but I hadn't done it in years. I had lost my courage, but I needed to fight back and just do it.

Probably the most important epiphany I had that day was to embrace life. I have to stop being afraid. I need to say yes to new experiences and not  mentally beat myself up over past experiences. I don't want to have regrets in life.

Even though when I think of my church or finding God, I think of taking a walk in the woods, standing in front of the ocean, or being surrounded by the mountains, I guess sitting quietly in a church can and did have a profound effect on me.

Topic: Church

Church

1965 was a big year for the Catholic Church.  They started saying Mass in English and Vatican II, a group of church leaders aiming to modernize things, came to a conclusion.  And when I was a few months old my parents had me baptized at The Church of Annunciation in Cincinnati, Ohio.   I was an infant so I don’t remember it much, but they have the pictures to prove it.  I’m wearing a white gown, and mom is in a dressy skirt and blazer combo.  I was taught early on that church was a place of reverence and quiet.  You didn’t talk or chew gum or even bring in a cough drop.  You dipped your fingers in holy water and made the sign of the cross when you entered.  You knelt before you sat down in your pew.  And it was God’s house, I was told, so you’d better show some respect. 

In 1968 my younger brother Chris got baptized at the same church.  I don’t remember this baptism either, but my mom retold the story so many times I feel like maybe I recall a bit.  Mom says that as we bustled around the apartment getting ready for Chris’s big day I kept repeating these words to myself:

“No saying gok.  No saying gok.  No saying gok”

Mom didn’t ask me what I meant by this or why I was repeating this mantra.  Apparently, I continued in the backseat as dad, mom, Chris, and I drove to the church.

 “No saying gok.  No saying gok.  No saying gok.”

I was three, a precocious, outspoken inquisitive three year old in a fancy dress, black patent leather shoes, and little ribbons in my hair.  We entered church in silence.  I already knew the drill.  I did the sign of the cross and genuflected before we slid into a pew way up front.  We got a special place because it was Chris’s baptism.  Relatives had come to the big event, and they filed in the pew behind us.  I’m sure I was thinking about the party we were going to have back at the house.  On the menu were cake and punch, and probably some beer too, for the grownups. 

At some point in the Mass, which I’ve now learned is about an hour long, it was time for the Baptism.  When I was little I thought the Mass was surely 2-3 hours long every time.  The godparents went up with my mom and dad.   The godparents mom later told me had the task of ensuring the child would be raised Catholic if anything should happen to the parents.  I remember asking mom, “Like what?  Like what is going to happen to you guys?  Are you going to die?”  And then I started freaking out and mom had to talk me down. 

Chris had a white gown too of some kind.  I think mom made it, but it was more boyish-looking.  No lace or frills.  It kind of looked like a priests robe or something.  At the big moment when the priest was pouring water over my brother’s head and saying the magic words, “I baptize you, Christopher Parnell Telemachus Dunn” in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I loudly interrupted.  I had to steal his moment.

“GOK! GOK! GOK!” I exclaimed, and then began laughing at my own joke. 

My parents shushed me, but they were too amused to be mad.  Mom asked me multiple times over the years what “Gok” meant, and I had to tell her I had no idea.  I still don’t.  I wasn’t punished.  At the end of the day Chris’s baptism still took despite my outburst.  And we all had cake.