What Happens When It Rains?

When I tell people that my red Yamaha scooter is my main (and only) method of transport around the city they ask any number of questions.  Precipitation is sometimes a question they pose.

"What happens when it rains?" Their faces begin to twist in concern.

"Well..." I pause as I search for the missing correct answer that will appease their worried expressions. "...I get wet."

Staying dry while riding is something I appreciate and I do take caution to protect myself from the elements (i.e. acid rain).  I own a raincoat.  But there are times when even waterproof polyester won't cut it.  Thursday of last week was one of those times.

Just as I turned onto the busiest street in Atlanta on my way home from work, it concurrently erupted from above and in front of me.  Sheets of rain soaked me almost immediately and wind blasts threatened my balance.  In order to avoid any accident I was forced to pull over.  I stopped under an overhang and parked my bike in front of a dry cleaner's shop.  The Chinese restaurant next store called out to me, a reprieve from overburdened clouds.  Inside, I sat and ate my hot and sour soup despite the puddle of water collecting below my seat and the fact that the small enclave was a take-out only joint.

One of my spoonfuls was soon interrupted by the entrance of an exuberant man, who I soon learned owned the dry cleaner's next door and was born and raised in Jamaica.  He chatted with the waitress and took a perch near the counter as I imagined he regularly did.  I listened to his stories of motorcycling in Jamaica: the races; the hospitalized injuries; the trips along the open road.  My ear was sympathetic, knowing the pains and pleasures of traveling by bike.

The bell rang as he exited the building and I peered outside to assess the weather.  The rain was still falling but not with the ferocity it once was.  I tried to clean up the wet mess I had made to brave once again the gray and puddles and damp that lay ahead.

I made it home, ran a hot bath, and absorbed the warmth like a cold-blooded reptile.  I had gotten wet and somehow it had made all the difference.

The hot and sour soup and friendly conversation with the Jamaican owner of a dry cleaner's shop were pleasant deterrences from a normal routine and reaffirmations of why I love driving on two wheels.  Not only am I more connected to the people in my community; I hear the nuanced noises of the seasonal winds; I feel the cracked asphalt beneath me.

Sometimes it's ok to get wet.

HOPE

One four letter word could sum up thousands of fundraised dollars, hundreds of days spent planning, and 12 hours of continuous walking.  Hope is a word that the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life keeps alive for those of us who know how devastating maladaptive cell mutations can be.  Cancer is cureless but certainly not hopeless.

On Friday the 13th a handful of my colleagues and I spent the night participating in Relay for Life, the American Cancer Society's largest fundraiser.  At a local high school track, teams were camped out on the in field with the intent to have at least one person from their team walking around the track during a 12 hour period from 7 pm-7 am.  Cancer never sleeps so why should we?

Our team raised nearly $3,000 between our six members surpassing our goal of $1,000.  Between all of us, we had lost immediate family members, extended family members, and had our own stories of friends and family who had challenged cancer to a dual and won.  Close to midnight, the luminaria ceremony was held and to the light of paper bag candles all relay participants made a commemorative lap to those lost to cancer as well as cancer survivors.  We looked around us and witnessed our community in solidarity; we looked up and saw HOPE.

Decision Points

I recently presented a decision to a Vietnamese friend.  He replied with the following advice,  


"Take two sheets of paper," he started.  "Write 'yes' on one and 'no on the other."  


I suddenly felt sorry I asked and disappointed as I waited to receive the trite wisdom of creating a pro and con list.  


"Throw the two pieces of paper in the air, and catch one of them."  


He concluded,


"Then, you will know your fate."


Another Vietnamese friend offered cryptic advice, "If you give up something, you will get some things."


Sometimes Eastern wisdom is refreshing to Western intellect.

Expedition Give

It's raining today in Atlanta.  I welcome this precipitation as release from the pattern of heat and sun and have fittingly passed gray skies with two cups of earl gray tea with milk.  Thanks to the calm weather and my participation in Expedition Give, I have been sincerely reflecting on values, community, charity, and empowerment.

When my work colleague approached me about teaming up to participate in Expedition Give, I enthusiastically accepted the invitation.  Expedition Give is an easy sell--an all day scavenger hunt around Atlanta with a community service twist.  Participants collect points for performing community service projects and collecting items to donate to various local non-profit organizations.

The scavenger hunt is days away but all teams have the opportunity to arrive at the starting line with points by successfully completing a list of five tasks.

So far I have...

bought 4 cans of soup.
bought one box of macaroni and cheese
bought one blue winter hat.
wrote one letter.

The letter I wrote was in response to the following:

Fisher House does an amazing job taking care of the families of soldiers who get injured or sick. Hand write 2 letters to the FAMILIES of these soldiers thanking THEM for the sacrifice THEY make and offering words of encouragement. The letters need to be unsealed and generic (can be given to any family) so that Fisher House can pass them along to military families here in Georgia. 

Thankfully, Wislawa Symborska found her way into my thoughts and served as my eloquent muse, yet again.

"To your family, our country's unsung heroes,

Thank you for your contribution to the security and sustained success of our country.  You have offered your most precious gift, your family member, to serve the USA and for that I am truly grateful.  I would like to share with you a poem from one of my favorite poets, Wislawa Szymborska.  Many of Wislawa's poems showcase the aftermath of war and genocide on her beloved Poland's collective consciousness.

I hope you find beauty and comfort in this poem and know that our country supports you in cleaning the emotional wreckage from the relentless ravishes of war.

In Solidarity,

Emily A Baughman

"The End and the Beginning"

By: Wislawa Szymborska
Translated from the Polish by: Joanna Trzeciak

After every war
someone has to clean up.
Things won't
straighten themselves up, after all.

Someone has to push the rubble
to the sides of the road,
so the corpse-laden wagons
can pass.

Someone has to get mired
in scum and ashes,
sofa springs,
splintered glass,
and bloody rags.

Someone must drag in a girder
to prop up a wall.
Someone must glaze a window,
rehang a door.

Photogenic it's not,
and takes years.
All the cameras have left
for another war.

Again we'll need bridges
and new railway stations.
Sleeves will go ragged
from rolling them up.

Someone, broom in hand,
still recalls how it was.
Someone listens
and nods with unsevered head
Yet others milling about
already find it dull.

From behind the bush
sometimes someone still unearths
rust-eaten arguments
and carries them to the garbage pile.

Those who knew
what was going on here
must give way to
those who know little.
And less than little.
And finally as little as nothing.

In the grass which has overgrown
causes and effects,
someone must be stretched out,
blade of grass in his mouth,
gazing at the clouds.

The Light that Never Turned Green

It wouldn't have been the first time.  

The first--I suppose, could have been classified as a mistake.  That is, if you classify a mistake as your mother's death grip on the minivan hand clutch and her high pitch scream of the Lord's name in vain.  

But mistakes unfortunately carry the burden of a bad reputation.  In fact, I was going too fast to safely come to a complete stop and the Lord's name was not indeed called in vain as we--me, my mother, and two sisters were returning from the 12 o'clock mass.  

Regardless, the first time was hazy even to my memory.  

Red lights are tricky that way.

Thankfully, I was able to discover at a young age that, in some parts of the world, red lights are simply a suggestion.  

While living in Vietnam, I broke traffic laws that did not even exist.  At the same time that red lights stopped portraying the gruff facade of a lawful mandate and adopted the gentle gaze of a prompt that is open to interpretation, I learned how to partake in the one-man circus that is riding a motorcycle.  

Now, as I am licensed to cruise around on two wheels in Atlanta, Georgia, the pleasures of the open road abound--but not without dangers.  

Criminals are lurking especially for unsuspecting scooters and their riders.  

If you're wondering...

then, yes.  I was a victim.  

At Briafcliff and The By Way, 11:30 p.m.  It was a Tuesday.

I am not ashamed to admit:

I was held hostage by a red light.

How, you may ask, does a girl outwit the ferocities of the Atlanta traffic system?

To be honest, I couldn’t say exactly.  But it did take raw courage, no doubt about that.   Moral conviction.  Unwavering moral conviction.  

Truly, I feel lucky to say,

I ran a red light.

Like I said, it wouldn't have been the first time.

What is an appropriate and thoughtful housewarming gift?

Forget the tacky picture frame or the transience of a good bottle of wine, bring your newly minted homeowner a gift that they can (and will) appreciate: a jade plant. 

Traditionally, the jade plant has been viewed as a symbol of good fortune or good luck as well as a symbol of friendship.  Originally hailing from South Africa, the smooth bright evergreen leaves of the jade plant are said to resemble coins. 

No need for a verified green thumb to maintain this succulent plant as it requires little watering and maintenance.  In fact, the jade plant thrives off periods of dry soil.  In addition, the cuttings from a jade plant will take root in or out of soil.  How about that for a gift that keeps on giving!

Dining with the Dead

The cool of the booth refreshes the back of my thighs as I slide in across the table.  A mid-morning sun is already percolating into the pores of those parading the sidewalk in time with the click, click, click of my heels and the drip, drip, drip of coffee on the countertop. Soon it will already be lunchtime but thankfully breakfast is served all day.  I look out past the shoulder of my breakfast companion to the gray stones that litter the lot across the street.  Through the full length diner windows are the residents of Oakland Cemetery. I have come to dine with the dead.

I spot a man walking his dog through the chiseled rows of rock.  Has the dog already peed on Margaret Mitchell’s grave?  Or—quelle horreur—defecated on the mound of golf balls before Bobby Jones’ tombstone?  Beyond that, is the old water tower of the former pot bellied stove factory now transformed into a conglomerate of a dozen trendy dining, office, and retail spaces—plus one watering hole, Krog Bar, occupying the former forklift warehouse.  My mind wanders to the fine wine selection lining narrow red brick shelves and an evening of slow sips of ablemarle red.  Devious arousal unfolds when partaking in such a highly cultured art in such a primitive locale.  Atlanta's history oozes from cracks in the floor and its fumes propagate my interest in unearthing what lies beneath. Six feet beneath.

Cemeteries fascinate me.  Perhaps it is the scuffle with death allowing me the liberty of rejuvenation, or the poetry of epitaphs, or the serene calm of hundreds of people lounging at rest.  Regardless, Oakland Cemetery is enticing and enthralling with a fantastic city skyline view to boot.  “One wrong move in this part of town and you’ll end up there yourself!” my friend jokes.  I let my laughter shake hands with death.  I can’t help but feel there are gentle on-lookers silently making their own commentary on our conversation.  Uninvited ghosts incite a self-conscious blush to warm my face.  My attention darts around the room.  To my right two mothers discuss the intimate details of their children’s social lives.  An overweight man awkwardly poses on the bar stool and takes another sip—the outline of his blackberry impressed upon the right pocket of his khakis.  A tattooed dude with two tag-a-long friends idle over the last crumbs.  Two lawyers philosophize bankruptcy law and banter their good manners—“Oh! You pick me up and pay for my meal! No, no…”, “Please.  It’s my pleasure.”   The air we share—us characters in a made-for-TV movie—is as languid as the hour melting away.

Two plates of pancakes interrupt the pantomime of conversation.  The glorified fluffy stacks are consumed in silence as if the next hour of our lives demand this syrupy nourishment.  And the next 60 minutes do demand a satiated belly if only to playfully mock the folks who rest across a two lane road. 

Exiting the diner, I squint under a now blinding sun towards the princes and paupers beyond a decrepit wall--smiling to myself at how the dead, yet again, inspire the living.  Pancakes and pecans never tasted so heavenly.