Shaggy-haired boys

Today I set up community service hours for a boy who--if I were still a 15-year-old girl--I would have been all over. He would totally have been my boyfriend. I would have sighed with happiness over his shaggy hair and band tee-shirt. That's the adult me talking, though. In reality, who I was at 15 probably would not have been able to handle a little juvenile delinquent, no matter how adorable—multiple arrests and a drinking problem in the boy I mooned over.

I like working with adolescents because I remember so vividly what it was like to be a teenager. There was a lot about that time period that sucked. Just plain sucked. I was painfully shy, didn't know to talk to boys; I was so sheltered and naive that I missed a lot of experiences that could have been really valuable. Being naive also caused me to be extremely judgmental about things that, in the end, weren't such a big deal. As time goes on, those fall away and I remember more the wonderful times that I had with an amazing group of friends. Everything is new and important and life changing when you are in adolescence.

I still remember what it was like to hear Eddie Vedder's voice for the first time when I was 16. My tastes have changed in some ways--no longer do I own an Amy Grant CD (purchased at a church retreat when I was 14 or 15)--but my heart still breaks with longing when I hear him sing. That has never changed. Listening to a live album I picked up a few years ago at a used record store, I remember being a senior in high school and learning Pearl Jam was coming to Wichita. It was the first time I knew a band enough to follow them--and I was smitten enough to take the enormous step (for me) of trying to get tickets. I even talked with a few guys in my class, boys to whom I'd otherwise have nothing to say, and arranged a ride with them if I scored a ticket. The logistics of that--how I'd be in a car for an hour each way with two hot guys I only nominally knew--didn't even concern me; such was my love for Eddie Vedder.

This is the way that story should end: I scored a ticket, had a moshingly-good time at the concert, swooned and screamed over Eddie Vedder, and in the dark car ride home, found myself a grungy hot new boyfriend.

This is how the story actually ends: I was on the phone all night calling Ticketmaster, listening to a busy signal the whole time. It wasn't until I was 22 that I saw Eddie Vedder for the first time, but since I also walked past him in the crowd after his performance, it somewhat makes up for missing the show at 17. And at 17, simply trying to get a ticket was a big enough step.

So I set up community service for this kid, and it's a good thing I'm not also his therapist.
Deep down, a part of me will always have such a weakness for boys like him, and Eddie Vedder.

Kiss me, I'm Irish

Today we went to the Highland Games, in the park by the theatre. I had no idea there were so many Scots in Alabama and the surrounding southern states.

We encountered pipes and drums, several different troupes of them, wandering the grounds, playing music. Under one tent, there was a traditional band of musicians playing together. Under another, there was a bakery from Tennessee selling scones and brown bread. A trailer advertised fish and chips, haggis, scones, and deep fried Mars bars. Deep fried Mars bars?? Sadly, I decided those were just too excessive (after last night's meal of debauchery at a wings bar), and I passed.

We watched the largest, most muscular men I'd ever seen wearing kilts toss a big burlap sack of hay over a high bar using a pitchfork. I think we missed the log toss, as well as finding the table for Tim's clan, the clan McKnab (from his mother's side).

They decided to close down the festivities early because the far reaches of Hurricane Rita built up storm clouds above us, and rain threatened, then spilled. The drum major for the games strutted to the center of the playing field, in his tartan, feathered hat, and epaulets, and cleared the way for the pipes and drums. There were about six different groups, and they all gathered for the closing song.

I was stuck on watching one group from Panama City, Florida, named Father Daughter Pipes and Drums. There may have been a son, too, a boy of 16 or 18 who banged and swirled his sticks on a big bass drum. The two daughters manned snare drums buckled to one thigh. Maybe high school aged, maybe a little younger, they both worn knee-high socks of thick wool, sturdy enough to accomodate a knife sheathed in one calf. Half baton twirlers, half drummers, their sticks twisted in their fingers and banged out the beat for all the pipers. Their faces fierce with concentration, fingers graceful, and bodies awkward with the weight of adolescence and heavy drums, they marched off the field to "Scotland the Brave."

My eyes prickled with tears. I am always moved by long-standing cultural traditions, and thought perhaps I could co-opt the country pride, seeing how I have a partially Scottish husband, and I'm partially Irish--which is really close enough anyway. (The trad band playing under a tent really sounded like everything I'd ever heard at Irish pubs in Galway anyway.)

Celebrating my heritage always makes me feel like I'm a part of something greater. Though nowadays I can only do it by listening to traditional music, eating corned beef and cabbage (or kielbasa and bread dumplings), that makes me feel connected again.