Don't You Bother My Chickens

If there's one thing I never thought I would do it is this:  write a seven-minute suspense/thriller movie script starring a homicidal serial killer who boasts a distinctly odd predilection to poultry.  And yet, a few days ago, I did exactly that.

A team of energetic, talented young folk who wanted to try their hand at the 48-Hour Film Project in Nashville asked if I would be their writer--the only answer to that question is, "Heck, yeah!"  

Does that sound like fun or what?  Stay up all night.  Live on junk food and Diet Coke.  Run around the streets of Nashville with folks who have lights, camera, a boom mike, and aren't afraid to use them.  I was all in.

I am old and creaky.  I am uncool and a techno-dud.  But I was gonna make a flippin' movie!

On a Friday night in July we showed up at the uber-hip NuMynd Studios with thirty-nine other teams, where we got a packet bursting with information and paperwork.  Eric Irvin, our trusty leader and the brains behind the whole deal, stuck his hand into an Indiana Jones hat and out came the genre for our film. 

Next: the pesky rules.  Every team entered in the competition had to include the following three elements in their film, no matter the genre:

1. Pliers

2. A line of dialogue: "Just leave me alone."

3. A character: Detective Andrew or Andrea Loper

Forty-eight hours later all teams were to return with a finished product, written, shot, edited, scored, and rendered into the appropriate format, no later than 7:30 pm.  One second after and your film was not eligible to be judged.  Let the games begin!

First order of business:  burritos.  Second order of business:  a story.  A few hours later Christina Morris was composing original music and I was texting my husband about the possible use of firearms.  His response when told about our genre and shooting location:  "Why would the chicken coop be suspenseful?"  If he only knew.

With way more Warren County, Kentucky connections for shooting potential, our little band of filmmakers was on the road headed north at 7:00 am the next morning, tummies full of McDonald's, happy in the knowledge that a real live actor would meet us on location.  

Nope.

A frantic search through cell phones full of contacts ensued.  Finally, when it appeared all would be lost, we roused a sleepy, baseball-playing, non-acting, unsuspecting fellow who, before he was awake enough to know what he was getting into, agreed.  Next: the rounding up of props and of course, the making of bloody rags (a staple in every suspense/thriller movie!).

Director Eric and Sound Engineer Alex Loft doublechecked equipment,

our stars immersed themselves in the psyches of their deeply riveting characters,

and, after a symbolic lunch of Zaxby's, we were finally ready to roll.

Ten hours later we were wrapping up final shots at a local grocery--

then we threw the equipment in the car and headed back to Nashville to begin editing the final product.

At 6:59 pm on Sunday, our four-member team clatters out the door, a still un-finished product rendering on the laptop.  We jump into the first available car--on E.  We plug the laptop into the cigarette lighter and take off.  Still on E.

No worries.  We can get there.  Siri is on the phone, talking us through.  We are almost there.  It is 7:10.  Train tracks.  A train is coming.  The crossing guards are down.  Mary Cullen calmly careens (is it possible to calmly careen?) up to the crossing, looks down the track, and bolts around the guards to the other side.  I am screaming that we could have run out of gas (while on the tracks) and Eric is predicting jail time for us all.

We pull in to the parking lot at 7:21.  By now rendering is complete...BUT we have minutes to go to get it uploaded onto the flashdrive.  Other teams are doing the same.  Frantic people in black T-shirts are running in and out.  Laptops are everywhere.

Fastforward:  we race in, past the woman with the way cool accent who is barring the doorway, an oversized electronic stopwatch in hand, at exactly 7:29 pm.  Done!

Moral of this story:  if somebody asks you to be a part of the 48 Hour Film Project, do it!  It's a race against the clock, against Mother Nature, against unforeseen shooting woes and location glitches, computer conundrums and empty gas tanks.  And it's the most fun you will have for a very long time!

Free Range - A 48 Hour Film Project from Eric Irvin on Vimeo.

May Sweeps

It starts like this:

a kid is born.

Well, if we are really going for accuracy, a kid is conceived.  Preferably in private.  Hopefully in love.

Some nine months later, give or take, said fifth, and final, kid is born.

And two previously young, vibrant, moderately toned young people become parents.

Years go by.  Often unobserved, generally unnoted, aging occurs.

Then one fine May morning the mother of said kid wakes up (if she's been to sleep at all), and realizes said infant is about to leave the nest.  Fly the coop.  Head for the open road.  Age up.  Hightail it out of here.  Or, in generally accepted American terms:  graduate.

OMG.  All caps are required.  OMG.

It's May.  There's a graduate in the house.  There are pictures to sort.  Parties to plan.  Dresses to buy.

There are banquets, and celebrations, and soirees, and gatherings, and the-last-time-we'll-ever-do-this ad infinitum.

The month of May is a watershed month.  A mere thirty-one days filled with prom dresses and, in our house, tennis outfits.  Driving and driving and more driving.  Trips to Sam's Club and Kroger.  More trips to Sam's Club and Kroger.  Multiple visits to Hobby Lobby.

There's the ever familiar backache from hunching over the kitchen table into the wee hours working on homemade projects you knew some eighteen years ago you would be creating, yet somehow those eighteen years slipped by and here you are, smack dab in the middle of the month of May, with aging eyes and fumble fingers, at 1:30 am.

There's the surprise attack of a heretofore unseen Google commercial.  Good old Google.  What say we Google "how to let go?"

There are ferns to water and flowers to plant.  Party food to buy and graduation cards to sign.  There are necks to hug and farewells to fling.

The elder children return, with dear significant others in tow.  Dogs run in and out, duffle bags and shoes are piled by the door.  Food is bought, cooked and consumed in vast quantities, at an astonishing rate.  Towels pile up.  The television runs late into the night ("play the movie...yah").  Music blares.  Jokes are shared.  And then, all-too-soon, the crowd shoulders up, all hands in the middle, and breaks with a loud cheer before taillights head out and the old folks are left with this:

Empty.  Silent.  Gone.

This time there is no other nestling to hold down the fort.  The last little peeper has flown.  The days of May have done their bittersweet job, and therefore so have we.

Miley Mania, Steinem Style

                                      

According to Huffington Post (ever the arbiter of all things considered intelligent and urbane, or at least easily digested in a five-second e-mail check), when Gloria Steinem speaks a mere seven or eight sentences on a topic, we, the passive, mind-numbingly stupid public must consider said subject hereafter closed.

Screw that.

Gloria Steinem does not think for me or for any woman or man I know.  

We think for ourselves.  And yes, while we do in some good measure owe our ability to publicly proclaim our thoughts to her diligent and focused efforts a number of years ago, women (and men) have been thinking for centuries.  And just because one former Playboy bunny (a still very sexy 79-year old--a feat which in and of itself deserves an ovation) has dedicated her life to feminist causes does not entitle her to become the final and, apparently only, arbiter for us all.

The subject at hand is, fittingly, Miley Cyrus' very accomplished use of her childlike body, her tongue, her lipstick, and her tiny little buttocks to gain worldwide attention, thereby establishing her place atop the Olympian mountain of our collectively wee brains' pop culture knowledge.

Kudos to Miley, I suppose, if worldwide pop culture attention is one's aim.

But I disagree with Ms. Steinem's assessment that Miley's performance (and Robin Thicke's) and a legion of other performers, writers and filmmakers currently working are not setting women (and men) back.

They are.  All of us.  And the harm being done is gender-blind.  Gender-blind, Ms. Steinem.  For where one suffers, we all suffer.  

Sex is good.  The desire for sex was given to earthly creatures for the very practical purpose of procreation.  Fortunately for human beings a little extra gray matter and what some of us call a four-letter word--the soul--can endow the act with significant emotional and spiritual resonance.

What Miley, Thicke, and thousands of others like them (trace it back as far as you would like--Madonna, Hugh Hefner, blah, blah, blah) have done is remove that very intricate, exquisitely delicate, almost unspeakable element that makes us human.

They have bestialized us all.

And if that isn't setting us all back to when we first clawed our way up out of the mud, I don't know what does.

This life isn't a game.  Sex isn't a game.  

The decisions we make about how we live, both publicly and privately, are not mere flicks of the wrist over the chessboard of our days.  For Steinem to equate what Miley and thousands like her do to "playing the game" is to belittle all our lives.  And, oddly enough, to belittle her own efforts because, last time I checked, there are lots of other games in town for women, in large part due to her own work!

I hope this debate isn't over, because if it is, we all have lost.  Rutting in a field with whatever rump passes by is, in my mind, a waste of so much--a waste of what makes us human, a waste of what makes it possible for us to even contemplate, much less create, art, a waste of the poetic, lyric, quintessential loveliness of so many human souls I know and admire.

So thanks, Ms. Steinem, for the hard work all those years ago.  But if it's all right with you, I will decide for myself whether and how to play "the game".  And when I am disappointed in my fellow citizens about the way they choose to play it, and the rules they choose to follow or to flout, I will exercise my human and singularly private right to be so.

And to the nameless, faceless hand that posted this HuffPost piece:  you have a brain.  Use it.

He Could Have Been My Son

And he was shot in the back.

He could have been one of my son's teammates, most of whom also hail from foreign lands.  Canada, Colombia, France, Japan, Mexico, Norway, Taiwan...each one of them beautiful in his own, unique way.

On any given afternoon each one likely to be running or walking down an ordinary American road, and on his mind...what?

If I know young men, probably his next meal.  Maybe the team practice he just worked through, or the workout to come.  Matches to be played or shots he missed.  A quiz to be taken, homework and lectures made up.  The cute blonde who just drove by in a little red car, music blasting from her open window.

The last thing on their minds, or on the mind of Chris Lane, is that he will be shot in the back.  Dead on the side of the road while the sun blazes overhead and three other young boys speed off in a car, having sated their monstrous "boredom" with the entertainment of this particular boy's death.  There would be the shock of not knowing, the wonder as his knees crumple beneath him, as his breath comes hard and his eyes begin to glaze.

He could have been my son.

They all could be my sons, even the ones with the guns.  They all are somebody's son and they all were little boys.  Some mother somewhere held each of these boys the night he was born and thought about the future that stretched out before him.

Surely not a single one of those women dreamt it would end up like this--one boy dead, three others' lives as good as over, the realization of what they have done heavy in their eyes, on their souls.

I wish our President got it--that they all are somebody's son.

Trayvon and George, Chris and the deadly bored trio, each one of my son's teammates.  Every single blessed boy borne by a woman, fathered by a man, sent out into this world with the hope that he will have a good life.

They all are our sons.  The good and the bad.  We hold their hands.  We wipe their noses.  We wash their feet.  We cheer their games.  We feed their hunger.

And we mourn.  Mr. President, we mourn them all.

I Am a Stupid American

You, in your proudly arrogant, non-American, wisdom have pronounced me so.  At first I was offended.  I bristled not on my own behalf, but on the behalf of others, my own dear fellow Americans.  The old I-can-say-it-but-woe-unto-anybody-else-that-does kind of playground call to battle that has made the blood boil of many a sometimes misguided family member.

But give yourself a few weeks to meditate on any idea, to turn it over and examine its many-angled facets, and sometimes you can find other truths deeply embedded, that wiggle their way to light.  

I am the stupid American who invited you in when you had nowhere else to go.  When you came to us homeless, wounded, afraid, your own land so torn by war, by ethnic violence, by bloodshed, that our stupidly American shores were a gift from either my own God or yours (I choose to think they are one and the same), we said come on in.

I am the stupid American who said hello, it's so nice to meet you.  Tell me about yourself.  I want to hear your story because I'm interested in you as a human being.  I value your stories.  In retrospect I realize that you never once asked about my own.  You merely chafed at our stupidity, our American-ness, our pork eating, unclean ways.

You came in my door.  

You sat at my table.  

You looked me in the eye and said all the right things, so that anyone who was asked could only comment about your politeness, your athleticism, your self-described and much touted intelligence.

I cooked for you.  I took you places and bought your food.  I asked about your hopes and dreams for your future because I cared.  We all cared.  

We Americans made sure you could learn English, at our own expense.  We Americans made sure you could find housing and food when you arrived.  

We Americans said tell me something in your native tongue.  It is so beautiful.  I wish I could speak it.

We said welcome to our home.

And you said we were stupid.

If that's stupid then give me an advanced degree.  I have earned it during my 52-plus years in a country that says people who don't look like me, who don't talk like me, are just as American as I.

A country that says you don't have to dress a certain way, or eat a certain food, or worship a certain god.

This country is the one that gave you safe haven.  

In spite of you, in spite of what you have done and the things you have said,  I will continue to exercise my very American right to open my own door and say, "Come on in.  Welcome."

I'll still be here, at my kitchen table, and others will be here with me, eating my food and sharing their stories, because we will care enough to listen.  And I don't care what language they speak.  I don't care what clothes they wear.  I don't care what god they worship.  Because (and this is something you, in your own willful stupidity, will never understand) I am an American.  

Something Bookish This Way Comes

Seventeen years ago I wrote a letter to Ray Bradbury.  Lo and behold, he wrote me back.  That fact, and the resulting epistle (which still hangs on my wall) will forever be a major "wow" moment in my life.

So tonight I wrote a little love letter back to him, the literary world's very own man in the moon--I know he's up there smiling behind those big black glasses over that cartoon-funny nose, probably exclaiming with the staccato, rapid-fire bursts of boyish zest that punctuated even his most mundane communication.

My current correspondence consisted of twenty exchanges with twenty folks I have never met wherein I handed them a copy of Bradbury's very own Fahrenheit 451.  It was theirs to keep and it was free.  All part of World Book Night US , a non-profit program that began in the United Kingdom and made its way across the big waters to our very own shore--a cultural exchange of the very best sort because it involves books, and the sharing of books.

It sounds simple, and it is--I can't even remember now how I found out about it.  Saw something somewhere and thought, "Hey.  I could do that...maybe."  Because not just any book would do.

When I clicked on the list of books chosen for the 2013 giveaway I knew I was in.  A chance to turn twenty unwitting souls onto this book, the one I read in a single day while I willingly neglected my five then quite small children--what better way to make a stand, no matter how small, against the very social ills Bradbury so sharply and, in some ways so accurately, foretold back in 1951?  

I wrote a short essay answer and clicked "send".  

The end result of that essay was this box of books.  

On any given day a box of books excites me.  A box full of Fahrenheit 451 is its own kind of incendiary device.  

I ripped open that box and took off.

First stop, dinner (a book giver has to have sustenance!).  The blonde young lady who so sweetly set my meal before me took the book I offered with the downturned shoulders and heavy sigh of one who has been handed a loathsome homework assignment--as she walked away I urged her to pass the book on to anyone who might be interested.  My daughter looked at me and stifled a laugh, asking her fiance', "Did you have to read that in high school?"  "I read it for fun," he replied.  I knew I liked that guy.

Time to hit the streets of Bowling Green with books in hand, and what better April night?  The sunset was more than fair, and the moon rose as big as the one on that bold yellow label.

Over the course of three hours I gave away 19 more copies of this book--a book that celebrates words, books, ideas, and the freedom required to access them.  

I gave a copy to three firefighters standing next to their engine in a parking lot.  When I told them it was about the anti-fireman, a man who starts fires to destroy instead of putting them out to save, they were intrigued.  

And then I began a campaign of drive-by, drive-through book drops, to a wide range of reactions.

There was Ross, in a barbecue joint I have never patronized (which, frankly, I can't believe is still in business given its routinely empty parking lot).  He was proud to take that book and even more proud to tell me his name.

There was Samuel, timid, pale and thin--he took the book, but only with the barest tips of his fingers.  If he reads a single page it might just singe the hair off of his pale round head.

Then there was Amron, who gave me the flat stare of the smug, disinterested, barely civil 17-year old.  "I'm sure somebody will find a use for it"--subliminal message reads "and it sure as heck isn't gonna be me."  Before I got out of the parking lot I saw a girl looking over his shoulder to see what had just come through that window.

Or Cresha, whose gap-toothed grin spread wide across her young face.  She grabbed that book with an excited, "I'll read it!!"

Then there was Brennon--I had barely begun describing the book before a girl in a visor squealed and said, "I read that book in high school!  It's a really good story--you will like it!"  She did my work for me.

Liquor stores have drive throughs--and interesting folks work there--people who were interested not only in what I was doing, but in the book.  There was one guy, Marc with a "c", who said he had read it three times in high school and then three more times, and could recite it page for page--tonight his daughter got her own copy to encounter for her own very first time.  

There was Amanda, handing out burritos at Taco Bell.  She had a question for me, "Is it a good story?"  After my description she chimed, "I'll read it!"

And DeWayne, whose eyes sparkled when he saw the cover.  He was a Bradbury fan--had read much of his work, but had yet to discover 451.  Best of all, he promised to pass it along to others when he was done, and I believe DeWayne will do just that.

While I sat in line waiting my turn to talk to the faces behind the window, I skimmed through the book and was caught yet again by Bradbury's vision of who and what we might become.  As our screens have grown ever larger, our attention spans ever shorter, our need for entertainment ever deeper, I am grateful.  To him for writing this book, to the World Book organizers for this program, and to every single hand that took this book from me tonight.  In a break room, in a storage closet, maybe in a car parked behind a fast food restaurant, new eyes will find these words and, perhaps for the first time, brains will question this world in which we live and why we live in it the way we do.

"There must be something in books, things we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house; there must be something there.  You don't stay for nothing."

                                                            Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

Dear Family & Friends: A Thank You Note

Twenty-five years ago, on a bitter cold and snowy January day, I was at 104 Mildred Court in Richmond, Kentucky with a strange creature about whom I knew nothing.

I was terrified of bodily functions and fluids (hers and my own), unsure of every touch, and paralyzed with fear of the unknown.  I was certain of only one thing:  the almost 100% likelihood that I would fail in my effort to mother her through childhood, adolescence, and into young adulthood.

Last Saturday that terrifying little bundle married her very own cowboy.

This was a hands-on, do-it-yourself kind of day.  Handmade centerpieces with flowers dried by the bride's lovely future mother-in-law from her very own yard.  Hand-hammered barnwood boxes nailed together by her thoughtful future father-in-law from their very own barnwood.  

Handmade lanterns with individually rendered bride-created tags, and the list goes on.  It was a virtual Martha Stewart festival of crafting opportunities--with not a single well-appointed, highly paid staff person to do the hammering, drawing, drying or tying.  

And boy, was it fun.

Come last Friday the real work began, with moving,

and toting,

requiring lots of manpower.  

With all hands on deck it's amazing just how fast things can be put together:

And then, in a flash, taken apart:

Smack dab in the middle of all this setting up and taking down there was a ceremony.  As each guest entered the church Father Mike handed us a simple stone.

During his homily he told every soul gathered there that the strongest of lives are built on a rock, and that each of us would be the rock on which this new little family will stand.  He charged us with the responsibility that comes with being a strong foundation, sturdy enough to weather any storm, solid enough to stand the test of time.

And as this joyful night wore on, as my dress became sweatstained from all the dancing and the hugging, as my cheeks began to ache from all the heartfelt smiling, I was reminded of myself those 25 years ago.  Of the fear and the loneliness I thought would surely overtake me, and with every hug, in every smile, I saw this beautifully diverse village of souls, my own collection of rocks, who had seen me, and all five of our kids, through.

The day after a wedding dawns on a house forever changed.  The numbers are different.  The family gatherings probably harder to come by.  The voices in our hearts have grown.  And as our daughter and her cowboy were southbound in that big old truck of his, I was held tight in the knowledge that even if I leave this planet tomorrow, you--my village of stones--you will keep them, all of them, safe.

 You will help them to be strong, you will help them to be happy, as you have for all these many years.

Connecticut Christmas

I have a wreath on my front door.  'Tis the Christmas season, and I always have a wreath on my front door.

Such holiday decor isn't original to me--according to Google, the hanging of wreaths is an ancient Roman custom that once symbolized victory.  Perhaps my wreath is a symbol of nothing more than the victorious hauling of decorations up the basement steps.

This year, in a town far from me, it means something far more.

Last Thursday three men I hold dear (one my own husband, one like a brother, the other like a sweet son), traveled to Sandy Hook.  They were driving through Connecticut and, like so many others, felt compelled to pay their respects.  With heavy hearts and tight stomachs they turned off the highway, not sure what they would find, not sure what they would see.

They found this:

The most picturesque of places.  An "It's a Wonderful Life" kind of place, the kind of place we wish we could call home.

The kind of place where evil resides.

They didn't know what to expect.  CNN cameras can only do so much.  This day, at this time, those cameras were silent, the reporters at a brief rest from what our media-hungry public demands--24/7, in-your-face coverage of the suffering.

They didn't know who or what they would see.  They saw quiet reminders of our collective strength.

They didn't know if they could, or even should, walk these streets, but together with other solemn souls they took these steps:

They paused to honor the outpouring of love from around the world:

And they stopped to speak with young college students who wanted to honor the dead, college kids who did the only thing they could think of:  make Christmas ornaments and set up a sidewalk stand.  They spoke about their need to help, about their desire to make a difference, they spoke about the future.

In years to come, as we unwrap this ornament, we will be reminded of pain, yes, but even more we will be reminded of the care a group of college kids couldn't contain, of their commitment to doing their part in sharing the glow, even if their own flame was small in a big, often frightening, world.

My three traveling men saw a changed Sandy Hook.  A Sandy Hook that will forever be different.  Altered.  Strange to its own residents, and now "known" to all of us.

They saw a Sandy Hook, and a world, that says no to hate and that will not, no matter the circumstance, allow evil to win.  They saw a Sandy Hook that says we, the people of this town--we, the citizens of this world, cry victory.  We cry hope.