For a friend

"Don't apologize for asking questions," she said. "I'm supposed to answer your questions." I doubt her job description included helping me, a shaken rookie teacher coping with culture shock and scrambling for time to eat. But neither were most of the things she did during a typical day.

I heard her talk about herself once when I first met her. After that, she was a mystery. She talked about her kids and her husband, and she looked after everyone around her.

“Don’t you need to eat more than just a sandwich for lunch?” she once asked aggressively, giving me and my bag lunch a cold look. I explained I had already eaten my other sandwich and that we had this same discussion a month ago.

“I’m just making sure you’re OK,” she said while pulling out her meds. I must have seemed an unnecessary mess with unkempt hair, ink-stained hands and a sandwich with no cheese nor condiments because of an early-morning rush. “You know, Rudene and I are your surrogate mothers.” I immediately tried to calculate whether my own mother would be thankful for or jealous of her claim. I think I went with thankful.

Some of my coworkers knew her for more than 20 years. I knew her for a mere 16 months, but I clung to her for two reasons. First, she was a beacon of sanity in a storm of chaos. Second, she was perfect. She was perfect in an environment that doesn't have use for the word. Her kind of success was, in a word, inexplicable.

“Would you stay another year if you hadn’t already committed to it?” I remember her asking me.

“No,” I said flatly and honestly.

A close friend of hers spoke with me the day she passed. The conversation left me with this lasting image.

She graduated from this school. She taught at this school since 1983. She witnessed this school transform into an underserved, underachieving school that burns out many teachers in few years. She refused to leave. She refused to abandon a place and a mission that many people would abandon young and in good health. She, a woman whose health declined steadily since I’ve known her, stood her ground.

She used to come to work pale and sweaty and ask us how we were. We’re all fine, thank you. We’re all fine because you’re here and you keep us going.

We will miss you, Ms. G. This school will never be the same not because you are gone but because you were here.

Canton's cowboys and cherished elders

I visit Canton, Illinois, twice a year over the holidays. Actually, I now visit Dunfermline since my grandparents moved two years ago to the nearby town/cul-de-sac that exists because of an annual fish fry/polka concert. These are the river towns of central Illinois.

My grandmother's three sisters, who all live on the same street, make up the many grandmas of Dunfermline. They bake cookies, mash potatoes and "warsh" the dishes. They also hustle "jumbo index" card games and grandchildren. They take frequent bathroom breaks. They take extensive smoke breaks. They curse motion-activated Santas around their country homes. They slurp Pabst Blue Ribbons not because it's cheap but because they like the crisp taste.

I'm a 23-year-old man, and I don't drink PBR in Dunfermline because I haven't earned my stripes. Besides, I don't like the crisp taste.

I love all of this. Your grandparents probably drink wine and play hearts. Sucker.

To be pantsed or to be depantsed

"It's called pantsing someone," my girlfriend said, referring to yoinking one's pants against one's will and without one's knowledge.

"It's called depantsing," I corrected, my hands nervously hovering around my waistband.

The definition of depantsing on dictionary.com is "to remove the trousers from, as a joke or punishment."

Pants is not a verb on dictionary.com. I'll make it up.

Pants
v. 1. To put trousers on another quickly, as a joke or punishment.

Nobody will read this because I murdered my blog

Two good nights of poker killed my social life. My friends won't hang out anymore. It was worth it. Would you rather have $80 in cash and a belly of beer or a half dozen grumpy teachers talking about their lousy jobs in your kitchen? Exactly.

This post will fly through cyberspace as untouched as Brandon Tate on a punt return. It will bounce against a distant wall and come echoing back toward its lonely creator.

I'll keep it to myself

I picked up a copy of Stephen Linn's The Ultimate Tailgater's ACC Handbook. That very special day, the opening Saturday for college football, is just 21 days away. I will be ready.

In past years, I published preseason predictions for the Heels. I get only about half of it right. Andrew Wasserman never faked a kick to beat the Wolfpack. John Bunting never switched "Hills" to become the president of the United States; my favorite teddy bear of a man isn't even around anymore. I never hung a rubber pair of Carolina blue you-know-whats from the groin of my car.

So enough with predictions. I will keep my vast knowledge to myself. Don't try to beg it out of me. Just know that my calendar has a Tar Heel etched lightly in pencil next to January because basketball season might have to get the hell out of the way.

Oreo compulsive disorder

My girlfriend diagnosed me as an obsessive-compulsive Oreo dunker. Here is my recommended method.

1. Pour milk into scotch glass, leaving at least a half centimeter at the top for milk displacement on first dunk.

2. Put milk back in refrigerator immediately to enjoy future dunking.

3. Open either end of Oreo package completely, but do not tear sides.

4. Slide cookie tray out of package, exposing two to three cookies in each of the three rows. Do not completely remove tray from package.

5. With thumb and pinkie on the inside corners of exposed tray, push back each row with index, middle and ring fingers.

6. Remove cookie from longest row.

7. Rotate cookie to locate strongest edge of cookie with most cream.

8. Pinch said edge with index finger and thumb.

9. Dunk cookie into milk as far as possible without letting fingers touch surface of milk. Soak for four to six seconds. If fingers touch milk, give milk to girlfriend and pour a new glass.

10. Eat whole cookie in one bite.

11. Repeat steps 5-10 until satisfied.

Hustler

I finished moving into my townhouse yesterday. My girlfriend and I worked on my favorite piece of furniture, a handmade chess table, for 12 difficult hours. I enjoy chess and tried to get her into it one night last week in Chicago. She nearly beat me in the second game of her entire life. I've played countless times in the distant past.

Today we used the finished chess table for the first time. She beat me handily while saying that she "just wanted to finish in the morning" for most of the match.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to do," she said, staring down at my feeble king and four pawns. "What should I do next?"

My girlfriend might be a hustler.

Life instruction

I got back Wednesday from a trip to Chicago and Libertyville, my old stomping grounds. My old bedroom had a stack of books I brought back to Charlotte. One of them is Life's Little Instruction Book. It has about 500 single-sentence instructions to live by. The author forgot one.

Do not apply to a university or organization that refers to its own prestige in the application.

This just in; my sideburns grow into my ears. Tomorrow I will buzz my head.

Boyman

I am a fortunate boy. My girlfriend helped me pack this week. This means that she packed more than I did because I don't know how. You see, I'm just a boy. I still don't feel like a man, but please don't think of this as a psychological inferiority. I keep experiencing new things. As long as that happens, I don't think I can feel like a man.

But I might be getting close. For instance, in recent days I bought cleaning supplies, a vacuum, two chairs and a table, all which amount to more merchandise than I've bought in my life. I think I might run out of things to buy in about a year. After I buy everything that I need - not everything I want - then I might be a man. I think all I have left is a grill, a mower and a watering can. No kidding.

Buying new things and trying new things always come with a blitz of questions.

"Byrd, does the icing go on the strudel before or after the toaster?" I asked, expecting a look of disbelief but knowing that saving my raspberry strudel was worth the look.

"After," he said. With the look.

"I'm glad we had this talk," I offered.

I cleaned with my cleaning supplies today. I did not clean for myself. I'm moving. I only did it so nobody could unnecessarily charge me money, something I would almost equate to losing to Duke. Still, the cleaning made me feel like a grown man. I drank my old college beer and felt more boyish. I think I am at that stage between boyhood and manhood.

But honestly, I think I've been at that stage since I was a freshman in high school. It is an incredible stage that allows me to educate children and ask a peer how to pay an electric bill in the same day.

This stage might last for another decade. I can only hope. I am a boyman.

Patriotic pants

I spent July 4 in Mooresville to water ski and attend a young family cookout. At the cookout I was one of three people who weren't either a parent or a child under 10, but I had a good time.

Just before the fathers unleashed an exorbitant amount of illegal fireworks, the 20 children lit sparklers and wore glow sticks around their wrists and necks. One child drew the attention of a disapproving parent, who sat with the other parents in a wide circle of lawn chairs. The child walked cautiously toward the circle with his head bowed. His dad left the circle for the impending discussion.

"Dad, it's not what you think," the boy said quietly so most of us could not hear. The father listened and nodded to the rest of his son's whispered words.

"OK, go ahead son," he said grudgingly.

"I hope it's what we think," an eavesdropping parent from the circle shouted through chuckles. "If it's not what we think, then something is not right. Keep your son away from my daughter!"

The boy scampered off with a glowing crotch, tens of glow sticks inside.

Swedish fun factory

I went with a few friends to Atlanta last weekend, and my girlfriend persuaded me to go to IKEA for the first time. I don't like to shop. I don't like standing, walking, looking, budgeting nor spending. I knew it was a furniture store. I had no idea it was a culture.

Let me amend my statement. I don't like spending money on stuff that doesn't do stuff. Furniture would be a perfect example. Books can entertain. Music can inspire. Clothes can keep me from getting cold or being naked. Furniture just sits there.

IKEA, however, is an elaborate castle of wonder. I found amazing discounts everywhere I looked. It was so gigantic and impressive that I forgot to buy anything for the first two hours. I needed a pow-wow with my girlfriend over chocolate cake and imported soda at the Swedish food market.

"We've got to buy stuff," I said.

"OK," she said.

And we were off. She added a coffee table, comfort chair and dinnerware to her list. I found a breakfast table, chairs, a Carolina rug and a microwave dish cover for $101.

Then we lost each other. I hadn't had this feeling since I wandered around Disney World alone when I was five years old. I jogged through the entire store twice in 45 minutes without any luck. I saw everyone twice except my girlfriend. Our perfect shopping experience had turned into a five-hour disaster. I had the keys to the car. I imagined my girlfriend sitting by the front-left wheel, dying of starvation.

"A Swedish woman took our cart away," she would say passively. "I want to kill her and die."

I couldn't let this happen. I had to emerge victorious!

We found each other. It was a Braveheart moment.

Go to IKEA. You won't believe it.

Looking back

"The Heels broke my goddamn heart," my friend Jesse said in June 2006. Carolina had just lost to Oregon State in the College World Series championship on an impossible throwing error. Baseball sucked for an entire year. I couldn't watch the pros. I went to minor league games for the cheap beer and barely watched the games. I made little effort to get out and throw, and when I did, it gave my girlfriend a black eye.

Baseball was supposed to redeem itself this year when the Heels tangled with the Beavers yet again in the championship series. I made the requisite solo road trip to Chapel Hill, but the boys in blue fell over in two losses. Baseball sucks again. The Heels broke our hearts again.

Heels fans are freaks. We don't talk if we lose. I couldn't release the vibe, so I left Chapel Hill without looking back. I had never done that before.

Lightning tore through heavy rain on I40/85. I searched for a solid frequency before I got back to the Charlotte area, but this was the only song that poked through the static. I looked back. But the Heels still broke my heart.

"Country roads, take me home
to the place I belong.
West Virginia, mountain mama,
take me home, country roads."
~John Denver

23

Maybe I am vain. My girlfriend suggested the possibility while I inspected my left nostril, which is considerably smaller than the right. I think the imbalance occurred after a reconstructive surgery several years ago. Were my nostrils uneven prior to that event? Surely I would have noticed. Either the surgeon is at fault or I became vain in in the summer of 2002.

I wasn't actually inspecting the size of the nostril but rather the hairs coming out of it. What is it with my twenty-third year? I'm sprouting the stuff from my nose, and I'm ready to buy a family pack of Nair if it exists. My girlfriend told me not to use the word sprout. She says sprouts are edible, so I'll call them hairs.

Tail between my legs, I went to Eckerd to pick up the tweezers. Now I know what it means to be a man. Welcome to puberty 2.

I will give periodic literary reviews this summer. Kinsella's Shoeless Joe will be worth your time, but I honestly think the film was more polished. Read the book if you're looking for a few more dreamers to go with Ray, Moonlight and Mann.

I started The Catcher in the Rye yesterday. Salinger's writing style is great. He rambles like Kerouac, but I don't mind listening this time.

Pick 1

Writers write. People read writers. People talk. Writers listen. Writers write. Is that the progression? My two recent commenters increased my audience by 200 percent. The quantity of readers does not matter, but the quality matters immensely. The same is true of writing and writers. Hello, Sara and Ms. Richardson.

I decided on something big today. The many variables weighed heavy. The pro-con list would have looked more like a flow chart, so I did not make one. Instead I threw all the information together on my drive home from work and let it mush. The decision popped out of my head and hovered above the dashboard like a lottery ball. I sat at the I-85 ramp red light, looking at my ping-pong impossibility that towered above the frenzied balls below.

Not having a heart would be too easy. Not having a head would be too damn fun.

Ceremonies

My friend, Kim, got married last weekend in the eye of a hurricane. She used to stay up until the wee hours, helping me study at Carolina. I saw a dear friend very happy.

My sister graduated from Harvard yesterday. I strolled the Cambridge streets without aim all day. I will do the same tomorrow.

This new life of ease gives me time to read. I am halfway through W.P. Kinsella's Shoeless Joe. I will try to remember the name Karin if I ever have a daughter.

I will now retire to my sister's air mattress, which requires several inflations each night.

"The process is all so slow, as dreams are slow, as dreams suspend time like a balloon hung in midair. I want it all to happen now . . . I want whatever miracle I am party to, to prosper and grow: I want the dimensions of time that have been loosened from their foundations to entwine like a basketful of bright embroidery threads. But it seems that even for dreams, I have to work and wait. It hardly seems fair."

~W.P. Kinsella

For evermore

In the waning days of my senior year, I sat on a wooden bleacher an hour after my career-ending basketball loss to Deerfield. Tears streamed down my face because I accomplished what I set out to do; I wore the jersey.

Jamie Stock, a Libertyville cheerleader and friend of mine, saw the waterworks and walked up the empty bleachers. I cannot remember what she said, but I do remember that she hugged me for a long time. The gesture seems strange when I step back now to think about how little we interacted back then. But the hugger in question was Jamie, one of the warmest souls I have ever known.

Jamie was everywhere. If she wasn't the focus of your high school pictures, then she was in the background smiling at a friend and laughing before the punch line. She was in her cheerleading windbreaker or homecoming parade dress. She was always a nice hello and could have been a best friend to absolutely anyone.

Jamie had a seasonal waitress job at a local brewery after graduation. We all saw her during our homeward college breaks. I asked her once if she remembered my bleacher breakdown. She gave me a cautious look, not saying anything. Was she worried about embarrassing me in front of my friends?

I'm sure she remembered just as well as I will remember her. For evermore she will be smiling and warm. I will miss her greatly.

". . . you will find us always loyal and true."

Bumblebee chain

I like scented candles. I also like women. This is a strange combination. I know. I lit my vanilla favorite on the bathroom sink right before I showered. Perhaps it was the scent that took my mind through the following chain of loosely related life events.

I watched Blind Melon's "No Rain" video, which is full of dancing bumblebees, when I got home from work. In the shower I remembered Kevin Timony, a hi-friend from Libertyville High School, standing perfectly still in a mechanical sunflower suit at the Mr. LHS contest.

"Lorrie Aiello, will you come turn me on?" he asked innocently on April 20, 2002, while I watched from a dark corner. She turned him on, and he danced. Ten minutes later Nolan Semrau had cornered me in the wings. He pushed me onstage to face the blurry crowd.

I turned off the shower, blew out the candle and put on some boxers.

Lavatory sanctuary

My workplace is rough. I regularly interact with an at-risk population. Some days I wonder how I make it through. The adrenaline rush compares to ducking from a fastball aimed at the ear. When I cannot get out of the way, the ball hits me square in the temple.

I use a single-stall bathroom at the end of my hall as soon as I get the chance at 12:45 p.m. I go in. I deadbolt the door. I pretend not to hear the commotion coming from outside. I splash cold water on my face. I sit on the toilet but not always to poop. I don't always pee either.

I sit on the toilet to put my head in my hands and rub my eyes with my palms. I think about how incredible my sanctuary is.

"This is awesome," I say out loud. I wonder how many of my coworkers do the same thing.

Where the ground crackles

I used to blog. Then I joined a movement that I suspected would find the blog and disapprove of its content. I deleted the site a year ago and stupidly forgot to save a soft copy of the posts. They exist now only as a stack of papers collecting dust atop my bookshelf.

As for the movement, it might have killed something small inside of me anyway. I suspect everyone feels like he loses a little bit of freedom at some point. Maybe I felt the loss of freedom because I was too busy trying to find it for others. Maybe I felt it because I saw how little some people have.

I worry that this effort will not turn out like the last. Last time I wrote about eating bird shot by my second post. My life is not as fast as it used to be, but it sure did change. Some changes were good. Some changes were bad. Some things stayed the same.

I think I can still write. I used to live in a writer's haven, but I don't anymore. I go back to visit often. It is a place of friends where the ground crackles beneath one's feet. Below is a passage sent to my friends upon their commencement to a new chapter of life, a chapter that must be different for everyone lucky enough to get there.

"Ah! sometimes from the straight white path
Our stumbling steps may stray;
And sometimes where the hillside slopes
We'll choose the easier way;
And sometimes when the path is rough
That takes us straight through life,
Our strength will fail, and craven-like,
We'll shun the bitter strife,
To choose the broad and paven road,
And eat the lotus leaf.

Yes, some will fail and take this road,
For grinding toil and grief
Are on the sterner road you point,
With hand in hand their mate,
Good Manhood, walking true and brave
Along the path that's straight.
Yes, some will falter on this road
And choose the broader way,
But when again the soft nights come
And Spring has come to stay,
They'll think perhaps of this last night -
The Campus white and still,
The dorms, the well, the old South bell -
Of all that's on the "Hill",
And then they'll leave the broader path
That leads to life's ill wrack,
To seek again the narrow one and -
Finding it - come back.

To some will fall the ivy wreath
That marks the place of fame,
While some will plod along beneath
The peaks of greatest name;
The years will pass and very faint
Will be your call to these,
For time is scornful of the past
And ever onward flees.
But sometimes when the Springtime comes,
And the sifting moonlight falls -
They'll think again of this night here
And of these old brown walls,
Of white old well, and of old South
With bell's deep booming tone,
They'll think again of Chapel Hill and -
Thinking - come back home."

~Thomas Wolfe '20