Teenage Mortality

On my way to see the rigger last week, I passed the pretty church between my little mountain town and the city to the east. It was midweek, but not a church day, and the parking lot was packed to the point where people were on the grass and double parked on the street. As the motorcycle cop stopped traffic and waved out car after car after car, I sincerely hoped it was a wedding. As car after car contained a teenager or two, barely old enough to drive alone, my hopes dwindled. It was a funeral. Not just a funeral, but a kid's funeral. These were the classmates, the friends, the high schoolers who just had their own mortality thrust upon them in the dirtiest way.
For the next 80 miles or so, I recalled the two deaths from my graduating class in high school. One was freshman year, the other sophomore year. I didn't know either one very well; I actually had to look RB up in my yearbook to make sure I was thinking of the right girl (she had been in a rather large, inclusive clique). What a guilt trip. The girl was dead and I didn't have the common decency to know who she was. At least with T, I remembered passing him in the hall every day between lunch and my next class. All the girls in RB's giant group of friends cut their hair short like hers, or at least cut off as much as they could stand from their long styles. The trend caused a class on ancient mourning rituals that was interesting, but kept everyone's minds on the fact that one of our classmates had been murdered.

Don't worry, I snapped out of it near the state line, and had a wonderful weekend with the rigger.

Roots, Of Which I Have None

I consider myself pretty transient for having lived in the South my whole life. What does the South have to do with being transient or stationary, you say? Well, in my tiny little mountain town, many of the townsfolk have lived here their whole lives. Driving around, you see a lot of roads named after people or families; I myself live on a "family" road that connects to a "person" road. In the city, there are roads named after people, sure, but up here, those people are (1) still alive and (2) actually living on that road. That struck me as odd when I realized that a few years ago. What did these people do to deserve to have a road named after them? Well... they simply didn't leave. And that's what blows my mind.
In this age of cars, trains, planes, and buses, there are myriad ways to get around cheaply and quickly. Why didn't these people take advantage of that and move on to bigger things, bigger places? (Better is debatable.) Why? They don't want to. They have roots here. Their daddies and granddaddies and great-granddaddies lived on the same land, in the same house, updating and expanding on the old homestead for new generations and technologies, for a hundred and fifty years or more. With all that family history, who would want to move? As families got bigger, they simply expanded across the county, naming their new roads after themselves, so everyone would know who lived there.
This age of easy transportation really doesn't have an effect on these rooted families. A 100-mile trip would be a week-long vacation affair for many of them. They have no reason to travel that far from home. I, on the other hand, must travel 100 miles, one way, to visit my best friend. It sucks, but I don't mind it too much. It's not that big of a deal. I can't imagine having ALL my friends in the same county, never mind my extended family too! I barely know my extended family. I know my parents' social friends better than their siblings. My cousins? There are two second cousins I still haven't even met, and neither one is a baby by any means. They simply live too far away and have too-busy lives that don't mesh with my own too-busy life. We seem to get together for funerals. And weddings, right? Nope, it looks like most everyone is too busy to come to mine. No bitterness there, it just leaves more spots open for the friends I know well. Callous? I feel I have to choose my own family sometimes, what with mine so spread out between the Midwest and the North.
With such a strong family support network right here in town, the younger generations usually don't want to leave. Some are afraid. Some simply see no reason to go anywhere. Me, I'm planning a 400-mile move in the next few months. And to me, it's no big deal, just one state. Thing is, what with his job, we'll be moving around quite a bit in the next several years, and that's also no big deal. Neither of us have roots; our roots are planted in pots, easy to pick up and re-place. I have always thought of that as a blessing, a good thing to be able to do. Now, however, after living in this small, rooted town for a few years, I'm beginning to wonder what I'm missing.

Eeeww..

You remember back in grade school when you got to use rubber cement to temporarily paste things? No? Go get yourself a little brown bottle of rubber cement, take a smooth-surfaced item you don't mind scrubbing (like a countertop, you're going to scrub it anyway), and spread around a thin layer of the gooey stuff with the cool paintbrush in the lid. Wait for it to dry a bit, then rub it with your finger. See how it rolls into sticky balls of goop? Kinda cool, huh?
Now imagine that in your nose. That was my problem today--rubber cement boogers. They didn't want to leave my nose! It was like a horrible eviction where the landlord has to call the cops to come drag the tenants out of the apartment. Four officers--erm, tissues--were sent in after the subjects, who were clinging to their home with all their might and refused to give up. However, after much coaxing, negotiating, trickery, and outright force, my nose was rid of the squatters--uh, boogers.
I breathe easier knowing the nose is safe yet again.