Category Archives: Nostalgia

Wednesday Afternoon

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We are putting new carpets in at work, so I’m packing up my cubicle today. It’s a pain, but it allows me to get rid of papers that have accumulated over the past four and a half years.  Going through the papers and recycling them is making me a little nostalgic.  There are a lot of files associated with the waterline project.  I remember when it seemed like I’d be on that project forever, and now it’s been over for nearly a year.  I miss it.

I preface this paragraph by stating that I do not want to be one of those people who always talks about her dog.  I remember when my friend Tap adopted a cat, he would not stop talking about what Bert did today.  I remember thinking, “COOL STORY BUT I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOUR CAT.”  But now, I totally understand. I’m sorry, Tap.  My conversations with loved ones have consisted mainly of what Apollo Did Today or Apollo’s Progress or Apollo Still Isn’t House-Broken What Am I Doing Wrong?  I’m surprised they still answer my texts and phone calls.

So I will try my best to refrain from talking too much about my puppy but I have to say several things: 1.  He slept all night last night, which was awesome and 2. he is learning how to fetch.

I better get back to packing up my cube. Is it Friday yet?

edit: I found the iPod that’s been missing since March on my bottom shelf. How the heck did it get there?! At least this repacking has been useful.

Files of a Clumsy Child – Kicking a Hole in the Wall (While Pretending to be a Figure Skater)

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Do you know when I started liking figure skating?  During the Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan scandal, of course.  Didn’t everyone? I was nine-years-old and highly intrigued by all the gossip.  My mother and I discussed it a great deal, and I would even do an imitation of Nancy Kerrigan screaming, “WHYY?” after getting hit in the knee with a iron club (I was a terrible, terrible, terrible child).

Intrigued by the gossip, Mom and I started watching the 1994 Winter Olympics, and were hooked.  My father and brother would groan whenever my mother and I would find a skating competition and sit in front of the television for several hours watching it.  I loved the costumes, the music, the grace with which the skaters moved.  (As you can tell from this blog, grace is a quality that I sorely lack.)

My obsession probably peaked during the 1998 Winter Olympics.  It was such a showdown – Tara Lipinski versus Michelle Kwan!  I was fascinated by the jumps – triple axels, triple loops.  While watching the Olympics, I saw one of the contestants prep for her jumps off-ice and watched her execute a perfect loop without her skates on.

“That looks easy!” My thirteen-year-old self did not have any concept of the immense training these athletes had to undergo since they could basically walk to pull off a maneuver like that.  Since it looked so simple, I was determined to learn.  I decided that I could practice my jumps myself.  After school, I would go into the backyard, run around backwards, and try to perfect my jumps.

God, this is so embarrassing.

I became obsessed with practicing my jumps, especially since my concept of self-awareness was still developing and I had no idea how stupid I must have looked.  I practiced my jumps everywhere – outside, in my room, in the hallway (when no one was around).  One night, I decided to try a jump.  I paused, pulled my leg behind me as I had seen the skaters do on television, and jumped.

BAM.

“Jennifer Nicole, what the hell was that?” my dad called from the kitchen.  Note that this house was very small, so there was no hiding the noise I had made.  ”Uhhhh,” I stalled, and looked down.  To my horror, there was now a hole where my heel had punched the wall.

There was no escape now.

My dad walked into the hall, bent down, looked at the hole, and then looked at me incredulously.  ”How did that happen?” he asked.

Okay, so about me – I was the perennial good girl. I never lied, especially to my father.  And now I was very nervous.  I couldn’t come up with a plausible story to fool my father.  So I told the truth.

“I was pretending to be a figure skater and was jumping around.”

He looked at me and then started laughing.

My misadventure spread through the household very quickly, which was unfortunate, since it gave my then nine-year-old brother perfect ammunition to make fun of me.

The hole remained in our house for the remaining eight years we lived in it.  Eventually, the teasing about my being a figure-skater wannabe stopped, and everyone else seemed to have forgotten about it.  But not me – until we moved, that hole was an embarrassing reminder about my brief foray into the world of fake figure-skating.

Files of a Clumsy Child – The Dangers of Stuffed Animal Tags

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Today I took a First Aid course at work. I always enjoy them because learning about different lifesaving techniques is fun, even though I certainly hope I never have to use them.  It’s an opportunity to be silly with coworkers as you mime lying motionless on the ground as they assess why you aren’t “breathing” (though I failed at that completely, as I was laughing too hard).  The lame acting on the videos is always a treat too.

As I’m sure you have gathered by now, I’m a fairly clumsy person, so taking a first aid course is beneficial just so I know what to do in the very likely event that I injure myself.  For instance, as I was watching the lesson about burns, I remarked, “That guy is dumb” because the actor was juggling two cups of coffee in one hand when they spilled and burned him. This is coming from the same person who, just several months before, burned herself because she grabbed a hot pan that she had just taken out the oven moments before.

Watching the various first aid emergencies depicted in the video reminded me of the fun I put my parents through as a clumsy child.  I have an entire list of them in my misadventures tab, with the promise that I eventually will blog an entry for each one. You know what? It’s time to start.

I’ll start with…the time I was trying to lose my index finger from lack of blood supply.

I distinctly remember that it was nighttime and that my mother was pregnant, so this had to have been 1987. I was three-years-old and playing in my room with my stuffed animals.  My dad was watching TV downstairs, and my mother was relaxing in their bedroom, about ready to go to sleep.

For some reason, I decided that twisting the tag on my stuffed teddy bear around my finger would be a great idea.  So I ran around my room, twisting the tag around my index finger.

I then noticed that the tag was wrapped around my finger pretty tightly.  I tried removing it but had no luck.  Since I was three and thus stupid, I had no idea that this was a bad thing.

At some point, my dad must have noticed that I was quiet, because he came by my room.  “What are you doing, Jennifer?” he said.  “Look Daddy!” I said and thrust my index finger in front of me with the teddy bear attached to it.

My dad took a look at my finger.  I can only imagine what must have been running through his mind – Are all toddlers this stupid?  Maybe the second one will be smarter.  Maybe she’ll grow up to be pretty, at least.

“Come here,” he said, and I followed him to his bedroom.  My mom was reading a book, her pregnant tummy making a round shape in the covers.  “What’s going on?” she asked.  My dad showed my mom my finger.  I don’t remember her reaction, but my dad must have calmed her down, because I don’t remember her participating in any first aid.

Luckily for me, my dad was either training for first aid at that time or was about to train to be an EMT.  Either way, I was in good hands and he knew what to do.  He took a small pair of scissors and gingerly cut the tag off my finger.  It was starting to turn a different color.  Maybe blue? My memory is only so good…I want to say it turned blue, but then I think my dad would have been more freaked out about it if it had.

My dad applied first aid and then had me stay up with him so he could monitor my finger.  I remember snuggling up next to him, watching TV and feeling special because I was allowed to stay up so late.  My finger was fine.  Crisis averted.

The next day, my mother went in my room and cut off the tags on every single one of my stuffed animals.

Next time, I’ll share how I tried to kill myself at age two by sticking a key into an electrical outlet.

 

A Gateway to the World

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Your wall art should define who you are as an individual. When I first moved out into my own apartment, I was very choosy with my wall art and chose pieces (on sale, of course) that made me look like a Real Adult.  ”Wow, I feel like I’m in an adult’s apartment,” a friend said once when visiting. And that’s dandy, until you realize that the art on your wall doesn’t really represent who you are, but the image of yourself you want to project to your visitors. While I had pretty pictures hanging on my wall, I can’t say my personality was really reflected in any of them.  It felt artificial and forced.

I still have that same wall art, but I’ve added a lot more pieces now that define me more as a person.  Instead of disconnected images, the pictures have taken on some sort of random cohesiveness.  My love of music is reflected via a painting of a cello, a poster of Dave Grohl, a concert poster of Nirvana, and a Dave Grohl license plate.  My Italian heritage is also honored via wall art – I have several pictures and posters that either depict Italian life or have ltalian words inscribed on them, as well as a beautiful painting that my Zia made hanging on my wall.  And my love of NYC is quite obvious, since I have at least four or five different pictures of the landscape or skyline, as well of a map of Manhattan.

In winter time, as the sunshine fades and the clouds shine dully with its inherent gloominess, I always find myself feeling so nostalgic for things not quite in my grasp – being in New York City again with my cousin, exploring the streets and giggling over how angry everyone looks.

And I miss Italy, especially when I see pictures of my Italian grandmother and see myself in her – the same eyes, the same smile.  She wants me to visit. I have not seen her since I was a child.  But the memories I have of Italy are still so vivid – the beautiful blue of the Mediterranean Sea, seeing the peak of Mt. Vesuvius jutting through the clouds.

When I find myself missing my family, I take comfort in the images in my home.  The posters of my idol allow me to be inspired creatively and musically.  The pictures I have of NYC allow me to dream. And my Italian pictures connect me to the country and family that reside in my heart.

A Road Map of Musical Memories

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Do you ever think about the first time you heard a song?  What you were doing or feeling?  When I listen to music, I really enjoy the memories that a song evokes.   I can remember where I was the first time I heard it, or the first time it really registered emotionally; I can remember when it was playing during an argument, at a party as I was talking to a cute guy, a car accident, or when I was put on hold.

While stuck in traffic this morning, I entertained myself by thinking of songs that I can remember hearing for the first time, and what feelings those songs evoked then and now.

For instance – when I first heard Band of Horses’ “Laredo,” it was on a sunny, fall day. I had recently met someone, and just as the song came on the radio, our mutual friend sent me a text with some proof that this guy liked me.  I remember feeling so happy and full of hope as I listened to that song; that entire fall, hearing that song resurrected those same hopeful feelings I’d experienced during my first listen.  When I heard the song again after things between us soured, I couldn’t believe that I had once thought the song was happy – it seemed so wistful and melancholy.

Here are a handful of distinct memories that I associate with songs from my childhood; I’ll stick with songs that were actually released during my lifetime.

1.  Billy Ocean, “Caribbean Queen”

Don’t ask me why or how I remember this, but the first time I can remember hearing this song is as a toddler, rocking out in my crib (or playpen.  My memory is too vague to discern which).  I couldn’t have been more than two or three, but I remember wriggling to the music as I gripped the rails.  Like a chubby little toddler dancing, this song evokes silliness and fun when I hear it now.

2.  Johnny Hates Jazz, “Shattered Dreams”

My memories of the 80s get more vague as I get older.  But I still remember the first time I heard this song – I was probably three or four, and we were walking in a mall at night.  I remember passing by some freaky headless mannequins; when I hear this song now, I don’t feel the creepiness I did as toddler, but it’s definitely a moody song I save for a cloudy day.

3.  Wilson Phillips, “Hold On”

Summer of 1990 – this song came on the radio as we were driving back from Florida. My parents had given me the option of attending my kindergarten graduation or going to Disney World – guess what a five-year-old is going to pick? Even now, hearing this song makes me think of a comfortable sunny day – that no matter what is going on in your life, you can be happy as long as you have your family and some sunshine.

4.  The Moody Blues, “Your Wildest Dreams”

Early 1994 – My dad spent his evenings back then going to college.  We were driving to the library so he could work on a team project.  I had a bag filled with my favorite American Girl novels and fruit snacks to keep me entertained.  My dad had just received The Best of the Moody Blues albums in the mail from one of those CD clubs he belonged to, so he popped it in the CD player.  Life was about to change for us – Dad had just found out that he was going to be stationed in Texas.  Hearing that song now still reminds me of that exciting time when we moved from Virginia, when you are filled with hope at the unknown places your life is about to take you.

5.  Counting Crows, “Mr. Jones”

Summer 1994 – we had just moved to Texas, and were staying with relatives temporarily.  Everything about this state was so new and exciting, and this song was the soundtrack to our adventures.  Fourteen years later, I moved to that very city that had briefly been my home during those first weeks in Texas.  This song kept on popping up on the radio after my move, and every time it filled me with mixed emotions – I wanted so badly to make this city my own, to feel alive, to feel the sense of adventure that this song had evoked as a child, but I felt so lost and alone.  It took a couple of years, but I am finally at the place I so longed to be.

The Last Lone Star Showdown

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I hope you all have had a wonderful Thanksgiving!  I know I did.

One Thanksgiving tradition in Texas is the “Lone Star Showdown.”  The Texas A&M and University of Texas football teams face off either on Thanksgiving or the day afterward.  It’s a huge rivalry and tradition.  Today’s game is their 118th, and unfortunately, last meeting.

Due to the conference changes, money, and, according to the commentators, “arrogance and stubbornness,” today is the last Lone Star Showdown, at least for the foreseeable future. (And seriously? Tom Cruise, I don’t care if you have a movie coming out, why were you making the game introduction? WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT TEXAS FOOTBALL?)

In the full spirit of disclosure, I went to Texas A&M (please y’all, no Aggie jokes. I have heard them all.).  To sum up my college experience succinctly, I would say that I loved the campus, enjoyed the classes I went to, and met some good people there; however, I was a different person back then and the small town atmosphere made me rather miserable.  I was more than ready to move to a larger city once I graduated.  The last time I visited was two years ago; College Station is expanding and it looks like there is more to do.  Bryan still appears to be a cesspool of despair.

Texas A&M is heavily based in traditions, and one of its most-loved traditions is its rivalry against UT.  UT has always been a little indifferent against us, focusing its hatred for OU.  But Texas A&M embraced the rivalry in full force.  Our fight songs focus completely on UT.  Aggies call UT “Texas University” or “tu” (I don’t, because I think it’s stupid).  Our fight song starts off with, “Goodbye to Texas University, so long to the Orange and the White.”

I’ve never been a football fan, and I never embraced the rivalry in full-force.  UT is a great school, so I don’t make a big deal over the rivalry like some people do (though I have to say, burnt orange is not a color you would catch me wearing.  Just because it’s not the most flattering color and all).  But I’ve always enjoyed the spirit of these Lone Star Showdown games, especially with a “house divided.”

This is Patrick and me, right before the 2006 Lone Star Showdown game.  I hesitated even posting this because I look so idiotic.  Actually, both of us were supposed to be flashing gang signs as a joke, but then my mom told my brother that he looked too gangster (shows you how much of a gangster I am).  Anyway, don’t judge me because this was five years ago, and I was in my early 20s, and it was a VERY CONFUSING TIME, OKAY?

ANYWAY, I DIGRESS. I feel sad that future generations won’t be able to witness the Lone Star Showdown.  Watching the game brings back a lot of memories – waving my towel at Kyle Field, the excitement of being able to shout out my wildcats at the end of each yell (the best was the sophomore wildcat because it was so obnoxious), and how charged campus would get on game day.  I remember feeling stifled by the conformity at times, but I’m grateful that I was able to have that college experience.

I hope that one day, the Lone Star Showdown will be resurrected.  Sure, the rivalry gets dumb at times.  But it also brings us together – families, friends, coworkers, and strangers bond over the excitement of a favorite college team winning a game.

And the biggest question is – what is A&M going to do without its biggest rival?  Will we have to write a new fight song?

So for the last Lone Star Showdown game, I bring out the Aggie-ness that I have long stifled.   ”Rough! Tough! Real Stuff! Texas A&M.”  WHOOP!

A Trip Down Halloween Memory Lane

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First things first – are you all familiar with the site I’m Remembering?  If you grew up in the 80s or 90s, get ready to waste half your life on this site.  You’re welcome!

Looking at 80 pages of this site put me in a nostalgic mood.  Since it is (almost) Halloween, I thought it’d be fun to share some Halloweens of yore with you.

1985

I have a weird memory.  I have to write all my action items at work on a list or else I’d forget my responsibilities and get myself fired.  But I remember the most random things from my childhood – where I was when I first heard a song playing, or memories that should have been way too early for me to remember.  My first memory is from a plane.  My parents were changing me in the tiny stall; there was some turbulence, and I remember almost falling.

When I recounted my memory to my mother as an adult, she frowned.  ”There’s no way you remember that,” she said.  ”That happened when we moved from Italy to Virginia.  That was March 1985.  You were only eight months old. You probably just remember us telling you the story.”  BUT I REMEMBER IT, MOM.

So that’s my first memory, but since my mother continues to insist there’s no way I can have any recollection of that event, here is my first “official” memory.

This is little Jenny, Halloween 1985.  I was fifteen months old.  (SEE? I WAS BORN A BLONDE).  I wonder whose idea it was to dress me up as the devil? Maybe Dad’s. I love it, especially since it’s a nickname my family gave me after I would get strong laughing fits during Catholic wedding ceremonies (it’s the way the priest would just start singing spontaneously and so earnestly…how is that not funny?)

I don’t remember much of that night, but what I do remember is hiding behind a couch. My sole mission was to sneak up on my dad, who was sitting on another couch. It’s funny, because I can remember my thought process from that time – even though I couldn’t verbalize my intentions, I remembering wanting to remain hidden – it was Operation DON’T LET DADDY SEE ME.  I thought I was so sneaky, apparently not even realizing that my mother was snapping away photos of my not-so-covert mission with the Polaroid.

1989

This was the second Halloween I was spending with Patrick, who was not quite two.  I was really excited because my kindergarten class was going to wear costumes to class on Halloween and participate in a parade.

So when did I tell my parents that I needed a costume? The day before the parade, naturally.  My poor dad had no idea back then that this was just an early warning sign that his oldest child was going to be a big procrastinator.

After a couple of, “Why didn’t you tell us that a week ago, Jennifer Nicole?”s, my dad promised that he would get me a costume.  Back then, he used to be a volunteer EMT on his days off, so he promised he would get me a costume while he was on duty that night. I remember going to sleep, excited about what my dad was going to bring me.  It was almost like Christmas! Would I be a princess?  A Barbie doll?  A witch?

When I woke up the next morning, my costume was on the kitchen table.  I looked at it.  ”Super Mario?” I said, frowning.  This was not a girl’s costume.  My mom said, “That’s what happens when you wait until the night before to tell us that you need a costume.” Then she guilted me by telling me that all the girl’s costumes were gone by the time that my dad went searching for the costumes.  He and his EMT partner had gone to several drugstores to look for the costume.  This costume had really been the only one he could find, but Mom told me that he had been excited to see my reaction to it.  Even at that age, I knew better than to act ungrateful, so I dutifully suited up in my costume.  It was your standard red Super Mario uniform with a plastic Mario mask.

It wasn’t until I arrived at school and saw all the princesses and witches and Barbies in my class that I began to appreciate being different.  I was the only Super Mario in my class, and I marched in that parade with pride.

Later that night, Dad took Patrick and me trick-or-treating.  Hell if I know what Patrick dressed up as (unfortunately, we do not possess photographic evidence of Halloween 1989).  Besides being a budding procrastinator, I was already a huge sugar fiend.  I ate as much Halloween candy as I could when we got home, then promptly threw up in my Super Mario mask and all over my costume.

1991

We had a little Halloween party in our second grade class.  It was your standard fare – Halloween-shaped treats, classroom games that the kids loved and tested the patience of all the adult volunteers.

My teacher took Polaroid photos of the party, and somehow, I was able to get one in my possession (I don’t know how I got it.  My second grade teacher was mean and I definitely was not her favorite student).  I’m on the far left.  My neighbor Emma is on the far right, and Sarah is the unfortunate mummy (you can tell by her expression that she’s having so much fun, right?) I love this picture because it perfectly illustrates how horrendous early 90′s fashion was.

Let’s analyze this outfit, shall we?  First, I’m pretty sure those are high tops that I’m wearing, and I see that I’m rocking the horrendous neon colors on my shoelaces that were so popular back then.  I’m wearing acid-washed mom jeans with suspenders – why were my jeans so high?  Where was the flood? Why am I even wearing suspenders? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS OUTFIT?  WHY, MOMMY, WHY?

1992

This year, Mom and Dad thought it would be fun if we stayed home and handed out treats.  Rather than spending money on costumes, we rummaged through our parents’ clothes and decided to wear whatever item we liked.  (This is probably why I never buy my costumes now).  I asked my mom if I could wear my wedding dress, and, here’s how cool my mom is – she had no problem with her hyperactive eight-year-old wearing her wedding dress.  It is a gauzy creation from the 80s.  I put on some earrings and dubbed myself a princess.  (I guess I felt like I had to make up for my tomboy Halloween of ’89.)

My brother decided to be a pirate.  My mom tied a bandanna around his head, then pulled out a gold hoop earring.  It was completely innocuous – the stereotypical pirates wear one earring on their ears, and I guess my mother wanted my brother to have the complete pirate experience.  No one really expected Patrick to flip the eff out.  He was not even five years old, but even back then he knew how to stand his ground.  He didn’t care if pirates wore earrings; he would not be wearing one tonight, thank you very much.  Mom cajoled him, insisting that there was nothing wrong with wearing an earring, that boys can wear earrings. Patrick stubbornly refused.

I’d love to say that Patrick stood his ground and won, a triumph for toddlers.  But…I can’t remember who won that argument. And when I asked him tonight, neither could he.  ”I know we have a picture,” he said.  ”I’m just not motivated to find it.”

I kind of think my brother would kill me if I posted the picture of us from that Halloween.  Actually, what am I saying?  If I had the picture on my computer, I would totally post it.  But since I don’t, let me describe how we look.  I have my arm around Patrick, my mom’s wedding dress worn over a clearly visible Little Mermaid’s shirt.  I wear a grin on my face while my chin is tilted at an unnatural angle.  (I went through a stage where I posed with my chin tilted upwards, so all pictures from that year make me look like I have an Adam’s apple.)   My brother has a hand on his hip, his little chubby face smug as he smirks for the camera. Perhaps he wears an earring in his ear; perhaps he doesn’t.

Now

I’m going to risk sounding forty years older than I actually am, but I’m so grateful to have grown up in the generation that I did. I really feel like mine will be the last to remember how things used to be back then,  when computers and cell phones didn’t rule our lives.  Halloween was spooky and scary and fun.  The Halloween specials (Garfield, Charlie Brown, Tiny Toons) were required viewing.  We’d watch them while eating candy and feeling the cozy chill of autumn.  We looked forward to watching the Disney version of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and get terrified (or was it just me?)

It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the responsibilities and stresses of being an adult…but sometimes, all you need is a little walk down memory lane to remind yourself to remember what’s important – family, friendship, love, and the cozy anticipation of a spooky holiday.

Intangible Memories

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Until I was about 17 or 18, if you had asked me what my favorite childhood memory was, I would have said this:

One night, when I was about three years old, my mom, dad, and dad’s best friend took me for a nighttime walk.  The weather was warm; it was likely spring.  My dad carried me on his back as everyone walked through a field of flowers. As he hiked through the grass, I held out my tiny hands to try and reach the flowers.  I don’t recall any specific conversation but I remember laughter.

The memory is hazy and tantalizingly brief, much like a dream – I couldn’t tell you where this location was or anything that happened afterward.  It’s inexplicable why this image resonated with me for long and why it remained such a favorite, especially when I had a happy childhood and have an arsenal of memories to choose from.  I think this memory stood out because of the emotions it conjured from me – the solace and mystery of night, which I had long loved.  The feeling of adventure, something I always crave but am sometimes afraid to pursue.  The rosy, almost cliche happiness we all experienced.  The idea of treading on an unknown path, not with trepidation, but with excitement.

It wasn’t until I was 17 or 18 that I seriously started questioning this memory. Why would my safety-conscious parents and their friend, a Navy Seal, decide to take a night-time stroll in what was a crime-ridden city?  Both my family and my dad’s friend lived near a patch of trees, not a field full of flowers.  It occurred to me that my favorite childhood memory may not be a memory after all, but just a dream.

I’ve never asked my parents if we really did take that walk all those years ago.  For one, it seems like a stupid question to ask (“Did we ever take a walk outside at night when I was a toddler?”) But the real reason why I haven’t asked is I don’t want to know. I still want to believe it was real.

A Regression While Playing Donkey Kong Country

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Jen:            Patrick, I want to play now.
Pat:             Wait, no.  You already died and it’s my turn.  You can’t be changing the rules
like that.
Jen:            But you play this game all the time.  I want to play now.
Pat:             You always change the rules to benefit yourself.
Jen:            No I don’t.
Pat:             Remember when we would play Super Mario World, and you would die, you would restart the game so you keep playing?
Jen:            I don’t know what you’re talking about.  You’ve already played this game
forty-thousand times.  Let me play, you dick.

(We both start struggling over the controller)

Pat:              Mom.
Dad:            Let your sister play, Patrick.

I wouldn’t blame you all if you think this conversation took place sometime between 1994 to 1996, but this conversation I posted above proves that a 27-year-old and her 23-year-old sibling can regress back to their childhood at any time with the proper medium.

A Coming of Age

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My aunt posted to her Facebook last week that it was her tenth wedding anniversary.

The first thing I thought was, “Holy shit. Where did ten years go?”

This was me ten years ago, catching the bouquet:

Ten years ago, I was a month shy from turning seventeen. I was a bridesmaid in my aunt’s wedding (I must say, I was very proud of the way I analyzed the bouquet toss – I knew that from the angle it was being thrown at, it was going to be much closer to the bride than where everyone else was standing.)

Looking back, it was a big summer for me – a coming-of-age, if you will.  I was learning how to drive, a prospect that TERRIFIED ME.  TERRIFIED ME. I originally trained with my dad.  He was not a warm-and-fuzzy driving instructor, which caused me to clam up even more behind the wheel.  My previous driving attempts with my dad would usually end with me bursting into tears, my nearly driving off the road blindly because someone was behind me, or near fatal errors like switching lanes without looking. Finally, my dad couldn’t take it anymore and shipped me off to driving school.  I purposely chose an old lady to train with, because I figured she’d be easier on me.  I literally thought I was going to die the first time I had to drive on a freeway.  But I wanted to have adventures and eventually get past my fear, so I think Little Jenny would be pleased to know that ten years later, she would be driving back and forth between major Texas cities.

But the most monumental thing I remember from that summer is discovering music, specifically classic rock. I’d been woefully ignorant of music, never listening to it like my classmates. I finally was tired of feeling left out and not knowing any bands, so I started making a concerted effort to listen to the radio to educate myself.  One night, about a week before my aunt’s wedding, I was flipping through the channels and heard this song:

It wasn’t the first time I had heard that song – Pink Floyd is my dad’s favorite band, after all. But it was the first time I really heard it, listened to it with concentration.  At the time, I thought it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard.  I felt chills as I sat and listened in awe.  I’ve listened to the song so many times since that I can never recapture the feeling I had when I first heard it; I wish I could rewind back to that moment. When it was done, I thought, I must hear that song again.

So I started listening to the radio every night, curled up with a good book like the Poisonwood Bible, which I read that summer and adored.  I would write in my journal and listen to artists I hadn’t heard before – Led Zeppelin, David Bowie, Ozzy Osbourne and Black Sabbath.  I didn’t know it then, but listening to that music would shape who I would be as an adult, would completely change who I was.

I look at myself ten years later and see someone who has finally grown into some semblance of adulthood. I am nothing and everything like the girl I was then.  And I feel poised on the precipice of something new and significant, like that summer.  I just don’t know what it is yet.