Hello, I’m Veronica
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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penchant
This week I attended a conference at my alma mater; the University of Notre Dame. The days were busy with leadership sessions, guest speakers, and networking, but there was ample time to walk the campus and experience the sights of times gone by. It is a place where pride, sentiment, and fondness combine to where I am unquestionably drawn to it. In a word, I have a penchant for Notre Dame.
What is immediately apparent about Notre Dame these days is its physical expansion. The entire campus of my undergraduate experience – now thirty years ago – is surrounded by new buildings, longer quads, and grander athletic facilities. As a whole it is breathtakingly impressive, even for those who have visited many times before. But when I cross the proverbial threshold from the new to the old; from the present to the past, to arrive in the sub-campus of my day, there comes a sense of calm and familiarity that can only come from experiences that leave a permanent imprint.
My walking tour took me past my academic and social haunts. I passed several buildings where I experienced the triumphs and tragedies of the classroom. I passed several dorms – including my own – where the memories of friends and roommates and dates and parties came back to me as if yesterday. It was easy to get wrapped up in the blanket of yesteryear.
Students were everywhere during my walk. I was delighted to see some of the same habits and activities. Frisbee on the quad. Boyfriend/girlfriend walking hand-in-hand. Dozens of undergraduates desperate for the spring sunshine relaxing in shorts and t-shirts. In that moment I wanted to be one of them again.
I captured my walk with a lot of photos. Every turn – whether for beauty or nostalgia – had me pausing and clicking. It was as if I was trying to capture the essence of my past and trap it inside of my phone. Which I realized, in hindsight, was simply not possible.
Notre Dame has some very special places. There are two lakes in the middle of campus with quiet walking paths around them. There is the Grotto – perhaps the most special of those places – where one can light a candle and say a prayer in the shadow of Notre Dame’s cathedral: the Basilica of Sacred Heart. And there are dozens of corners where you disappear behind a building or down a walkway, and suddenly realize you are alone in the peace and quiet of the moment.
I walked past one of the lakes for several minutes trying to recapture the moments and voices of my years. I sat at the Grotto trying to summon the spirits of such a significant time in my life. Even at the bookstore – where Notre Dame’s name or logo is imprinted on everything imaginable, I wandered the aisles in search of… in search of… I’m not sure what. Did I really believe I could purchase my memories in a shirt? Or a book? Or a photo?
Thirty years can change a place forever. New buildings, new students, and the personality of a new generation dissolve the images of what once was. And so, as I completed my journey down memory lane, I realized that what I sought, I already had with me. My years at Notre Dame; my experience that was like no other, rests proudly and permanently in my memories. No photograph or keepsake or paragraph will ever do it justice.
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chagrin
A year or so ago I left my Kindle e-reader in an airplane seat pocket when I deplaned. Those seat pockets contain just a few things – an in-flight magazine, a plastic card that describes safety features, and the timeless airsickness bag. So there’s plenty of room to lose an e-reader in there. Does that sound like an excuse? Well imagine my utter frustration and disappointment – my chagrin – when I did it AGAIN this past weekend. Same drill. I stowed my Kindle in the seat pocket along with some magazines before takeoff. I did all of my reading in-flight. And then in my haste to deplane, I took the magazines and left the Kindle.
There’s an interesting dance you do when you realize you’ve left something on an airplane. It typically begins when you’re unpacking your bags. You take out the clothes and bathroom stuff and then you get down to the little things. About that time you start to wonder when a particular item will surface. Laptop – check. iPod – check. Kindle – oh no, not again. You double-check (okay, you triple-check) your suitcase and your carry-on. You tear your car apart to make sure it didn’t slip between the seats on the way home. And then after you’ve bounced around the bedroom cursing at the walls, you resign yourself to the fact that your Kindle is now in the hands of Delta Airlines. Or one of its enterprising employees.
Delta has a promising process to claim “lost articles”. You go on-line and fill out an official-looking form. You describe the lost article to prove it’s yours. And then you wait. And wait. After three days I got an email reply. It started positively enough. “Dear Mr. Wilson: The search continues… “. But the paragraphs that followed are collectively referred to as “form letter”. It was painfully obvious Delta was not going to drop everything to unearth my Kindle.
My theory on the current whereabouts of my Kindle has two endings. In one, a Delta “cleaner” finds my Kindle and pockets it; or gifts it to his/her child; or stocks the nice little black market he/she has going on the side. In the other, Delta doesn’t have enough employees to clean the seat pockets after every trip so my Kindle just continues on to the next destination. To the person who got my seat after me, I say “you’re welcome”.
Here’s a great invention inspired by my Kindle-down experience. It’s a wireless “leash”: a band that goes around your wrist with a removable Velcro button that can be attached to small personal items (i.e. Kindles). When the wrist band and the Velcro button are far enough apart, the band beeps and you realize something is not right. Not bad, huh?
In my defense for having abandoned my Kindle twice, a laptop is too big for the seat pocket so at least a portion would be visible. iPods and mobile phones are too small to risk putting in the seat pocket and forgetting about. But a Kindle? The perfect size. Small enough and flat enough to disappear into seat pocket oblivion.
This story will have an ending, happy or not. Remember, according to Delta, “the search continues”…
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insentient
My 2002 “Red Rock Pearl” Acura has been my faithful companion for the last thirteen years. She’s racked up an impressive 285,000 miles on Colorado’s streets and highways. She’s weathered the extremes of winter blizzards, the instability of our roads (potholes! washboard!), and the novice driving skills of my formerly teenage kids. Through it all she’s given me safe passage with a minimum of maintenance and repairs.
Back in 2002 when I purchased her new, the salesman claimed she would go 400,000 miles. More than a decade later I’m inclined to agree. When I take her in for service and see the newer models, I’m reminded there are still plenty of miles left in her tank.
When you’ve been with a car this long you tend to forgive the little things. Like, the stereo holds six CD’s but at some point the mechanism jammed and now they’re all stuck inside my dashboard. Or the GPS system has mapping which is slowly dating itself because it pulls from a DVD instead of a wireless network. Or the gold accents I added when she was new that have long since fallen off the body. Hail damage and a run-in with a pasture fence (driver to remain nameless) have left her less than “cosmetically pleasing”.
Recently my wife and I have been talking about getting a new car. A newer-model Acura or perhaps another make. Either way, a replacement for the old girl. And to be honest, I don’t think “she” is happy about it.
Let’s address this “she” thing, shall we? Somewhere in her early years my kids decided my car was a girl. They named her “Roxanne”. Forget the blow to my masculinity; giving inanimate objects names and personalities is just weird. Cars have no feelings. They are insentient. Or are they?
Lately I’ve noticed the little things:
- At random the gear shift sticks on “P” and you have to jam it with a pen to get it to “D”.
- The little light in the glove box goes on and off, even when the door is closed.
- The air conditioner makes a nasty screechy mechanical noise when it comes to life. It only gives you cold air when it feels like it.
- Adjusting the stereo volume or tuning radio stations is an adventure. Whether you use the buttons on the steering wheel or the knob on the dashboard, you never know what you’re going to get. Sometimes it’s better to just drive in silence.
- The rear cargo hatch doesn’t cooperate. When it’s really cold the door freezes shut. When it’s mildly cold the door doesn’t stay in the “up” position by itself.
None of these inconveniences compromises my safety or demands an immediate fix. Instead, it’s as if “Roxy” is finding ways to discreetly disagree with the new car discussion. I guess I can’t blame her – she’s been delivering me safely from Point A to Point B for almost a quarter of my lifetime.
Hold the phone. Did I actually just consider my car’s point of view?
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unsung
St. Patrick gets a lot of attention this time of year. His Feast Day is March 17th, when many of us claim to be Irish. We wear the green, march in the parades, run the 5k’s, and drink more than we should. Over the centuries we’ve built massive cathedrals to Patrick’s name in Dublin and New York City and a dozen other cities around the globe. But why does Patrick get all the love? Did you know there are actually three patron saints of Ireland? I’d like to talk about one of the others – my wife’s namesake Brigid. Her Feast Day is February 1st.
Three years ago Brigid and I visited Ireland for the first time. While we toured the Emerald Isle we made a point of travelling to Kildare – not far from Dublin – to see St. Brigid’s Cathedral. Kildare is delightful; the quaint Irish town of my mind’s eye. St. Brigid’s Cathedral is its focal point, just above the town square. It was constructed a long time ago but it’s still an impressive landmark. You’ll learn a lot about St. Brigid here. She had a way with animals (an absolute parallel with my wife), she was a patroness of students, and she was a female superior in the church. In a nutshell, she knew how to get what she wanted (again, a parallel).
Brigid has fifteen “wishing wells” throughout Ireland; devotional places where the water is said to be holy. The one we visited had a prayer tree full of ribbons and strips of cloth. Animals watched us from a nearby pasture.
Let’s go back to Patrick for a moment. Again, I’m not sure why he gets the spotlight. Yes he’s a “patron saint” of Ireland (along with Brigid and some guy named Columba) but more specifically? He’s the patron saint of engineers and paralegals. That’s it.
Brigid outdid herself in the patron saint department. She’s the patron saint of (deep breath here): babies, blacksmiths, boatmen, brewers, cattle, chicken farmers, children whose parents are not married, children with abusive fathers, children born into abusive unions, dairymaids, dairy workers, fugitives, infants, mariners, midwives, milk maids, nuns, poets, poor, poultry farmers, poultry raisers, printing presses, sailors, scholars, travelers, and “watermen” (whatever those are).
Maybe Brigid deserves a parade too, huh? Doesn’t she seem a little unsung?
Patrick made magic with shamrocks and banished a lot of snakes from Ireland. Brigid performed at least eight miracles, founded several abbeys and monasteries, and built a school of art. Need I say more?
We have a St. Brigid’s Cross in our house, which legend says protects the home from any sort of harm. We also have a framed copy of her Blessing, which ensures the roof, walls, windows, doors, and fireplaces are all covered. We are all about Brigid.
One closing comment. After returning from Ireland it occurred to me there’s probably a little love for St. David somewhere in the world as well. With a little research I discovered that St. Dave also has his own cathedral. It’s on the west coast of Wales in the county of Pembrokeshire. As the crow flies it’s less than a hundred miles from Brigid’s place in Ireland.
I think our next trip will be to Wales.
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connoisseur
I love licorice. It is hands down my favorite choice from any aisle, bag, box or bin in the candy store. A lot of people love chocolate and so do I, but it’s not even a close second to licorice in my book. Furthermore, I have a lifetime of experiences with licorice to where I am a practiced judge when it comes to flavors, textures, and brands. Red or black, sweet or salty, soft or hard, domestic or imported. I am a connoisseur of this unique confection.
I was tastefully (ha) reminded of my licorice obsession this past Christmas. My son and his wife gave me a Santa’s bag worth of the black and red (and yellow, green, and orange). There were over twenty flavors, brands and colors in the bag. For most people this would be a year’s worth of satisfaction. For me, I’ve made a pretty good dent after just three months. I’ll probably be looking to replenish my stash sometime this summer.
Licorice has come a long way since my childhood years. My dad also had an affection (confection?) for licorice and he introduced me to a hard chewy black button known as the “Heide”, from the Henry Heide candy company. To this day, the Heide is still my favorite licorice. Years ago Heide was snapped up by a bigger candy manufacturer. Before they were, I wrote them a letter and expressed my appreciation for their wonderful licorice products. In return they sent me a generous box of samples and a small book that told the story of their product. I wonder if companies still make that gesture today when they hear from their satisfied consumers.
Inevitably I get the question “red” or “black”? Until recently I gave a rather smug answer, saying “black” is the only real licorice by definition. Then I discovered the product of a small New Zealand company, through my local natural foods store. Their soft, red raspberry licorice knocked me over; so much so that I sent my dad a bag. It’s made from organic ingredients local to New Zealand, with a full-bodied fruity taste (no, I’m not talking about wine). Isn’t it a wonder a product so unique and captivating can travel halfway around the world to the shelves of my local organic grocery? Life is good.
I have several childhood memories of licorice. Heide made other licorice-like products, including Jujubes, Jujyfruits, and Red Hot Dollars. “Switzer’s” was a common brand years ago with a twist product similar to today’s “Twizzlers” or “Red Vines”. Finally, I know I’ve eaten miles of “shoelaces” – the kind of licorice that some would call edible phone cable.
Here’s a fact that’s probably true of a lot of candies. A generation or more ago licorice was made with “real” ingredients. Even inside of the harsh plastic wrapper, you would find some derivative of licorice root in the ingredient list. Then a really smart food chemist came along and figured out how to imitate for cheaper. Any connection to real licorice disappeared, at least in this country. But in the last few years I think we’re getting back to where we belong. Whole organic foods are becoming the norm. Even prepared foods, like my New Zealand brand licorice, are made from raw, natural, healthy ingredients. For that reason, I will continue to be a connoisseur of the world’s brands of true licorice. The next generation can have their Red Vines.
About Me
The sky is not completely dark at night. Were the sky absolutely dark, one would not be able to see the silhouette of an object against the sky.
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