The Beach and Pizza

Watching a beach sunset likely falls somewhere in everyone’s life-to-do list, and there’s a good chance it’s been checked off most of them, time and time again. In truth, most of us have done it at some point in our lives. It’s peaceful; one of the most tranquil of life’s pleasures is the sound of waves washing up to the sand while seagulls caw. It’s meditative; all of the day’s thoughts and worries seem to flow away with the water as it rolls back to sea. It’s romantic; few things compare to tasting the lips of the person you love as the earth’s candle goes out around you.

But I would venture to guess that a lot of us don’t do it just to do it. We don’t take the time to sit on the beach and watch the sun set behind the ocean or the lake “just because.” It tends to be part of the bigger picture rather than the picture itself. I was definitely one who fell into this category. I’ve seen many a beach sunset, most by accident—being in the right place at the right time. And those that were intentional were meant to be a part of something else.

I added it to my list of resolutions because I didn’t want to do it by accident and I didn’t want there to be a reason I was on the beach other than to take the time to watch the sun set. It fell under my search for tranquility. I could just sit and breathe in the salt, listen to the ocean, and watch the day end in peace.

The day that I decided to go to the beach had been a lovely one. My sister was in town; my father had the day off from work; and my mother, knowing I have resolutions to complete, suggested we watch the sunset together as a family. We don’t get to spend as much time together as we once did; my sister and I are off living our lives as “grown ups.” It had been years since we had sat on a beach towel, our toes wiggling in the sand, together.

And so, despite my initial decision to spend the sunset alone, I decided it would be more meaningful with my family there—not just because I would be in the company of the people I admire most in this world, but for an opportunity to spend a beautiful day doing something that made me remember a beautiful childhood. The sunset was still the bigger picture; its frame would just be constructed of family time and memory making.

We left from my house, bags of beach towels and soda/pop stuffed into the trunk, and headed toward Malibu. But first, a food stop. We had to eat, of course. Dinner time and sunset seem so hand-in-hand. We got some pizza (and Mexican for my darling sister who craved a “run to the border”), climbed back into the jeep, and made our way up through the spiraling canyons that would eventually give way to the one and only Pacific Coast Highway.

As we got to the top, mist settled around us, blanketing the sun from view. Darn it. Come back, sunshine! Come back! It would not be easy to watch the sun set behind the ocean if the clouds were hiding her. I could only hope that once we made our descent and reached PCH, the fog would lift and sunshine would glisten once more. As we swerved through the canyon, I crossed my fingers and balanced the box of pizza against the seat cushion. At least I could save dinner.

Once we reached PCH, I knew that any hope I had of the sun coming back out was gone. We parked the car, filled up the meter with coins, and grabbed the food and bags, marching our way toward the sand.

I flicked off my flip-flops and stepped onto the beach.

“Oh My God, it’s so cold,” my sister said, squirming. She had just read my mind. “I’m so used to the sand being hot.”

I laughed and nodded. She was right. Usually we had to race across the beach like we were walking over hot coal. But it had turned into a suddenly icy, hazy day by the ocean. No such luck. Oh how I missed the hot coal feel of sand on my skin in that instant.

We went as close toward the water as was reasonable; the fear of the ocean swallowing our pizza stopped us from going too far. The blanket was spread and the food was placed in the center. The four of us settled into each corner, keeping our eyes toward the sea. The only other inhabitants were straggling runners and a family of birds colonizing the sand a few feet from us.

Dinner was consumed amongst chattering teeth (it was dang chilly) and belly-shaking laughter (we are dang funny), all the while sneaking peeks

at our watches to make sure we didn’t miss sunset. After cleaning up, we explored the beach—my sister walked around in search of shells and I snapped pictures of my family, the ocean, the birds. When the water rushed up to my feet, it felt like a million frozen needles piercing me; but when it surged back, the sand felt like calming, grainy dough against my skin. I couldn’t help but laugh, thinking how the sand I had thought so cold an hour earlier was now the thing that soothed me. The mysteries of nature are so fascinating.

When it was time to “watch the sunset”, we settled back onto the blanket and stared out toward the ocean. I smiled. We sat in the shape of a frame, literally. Each of us in our respective corners. And the sea, the sand, the sun were the picture

We waited until it was officially “sunset”, and though we couldn’t see the sun actually go down behind the ocean, we sat together, shivering in the cold and sharing our moment of tranquility with nature. And with one another.

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The Big Easy

Blend the beat of drums with a splash of VooDoo rituals and European horns; then mix in some Church music and a sprinkle of Saloon sounds, and from that recipe, jazz is born—in the Big Easy—dating back to the late 1800s.

Prior to the Civil War in America, New Orleans was the only place where slaves could own their own drums. They thumped their instruments, sung with harmony, and danced to the rhythms that tasted of freedom. Once slavery had been abolished, jazz grew stronger, evolving into sounds that got people off their feet, to dance and to come alive.

Those who know me well know that I have a mild obsession with the era of Slavery in America. I love to read books and watch movies that take place during that period. It’s such a horrible time in our history, such an immense moment of shame; yet from the cruelties of slavery, so many heroes were born, so much culture was planted, and so many types of music were created—beats that, to this day, make our heads bounce, our feet tap, and our hearts find their tempo.

And so what better place to go to learn about jazz—how it’s made, how it’s played—than New Orleans?

I entered into this specific journey very poorly prepared. I only knew that I wanted to take a lesson. Why? I’m not very musically inclined, and so I wanted to work on that. I know when I like a song because it will stir my emotions or make me want to dance. Often, the writer in me sees stories playing out in my head when I listen to music. The sound, the story, and the flow that are brought to life by a song fill up empty spaces in my soul. Jazz in particular has the ability to vibrate deep into the depths of those listening to it.

The next obvious question would be what type of jazz? Dancing, singing, playing an instrument? I had no idea. I was interested in all of it. I looked things up on the internet and searched for instructors in the New Orleans area, but came up flat. I wasn’t sure any of the people I found would be keen on a one-time session. But, I had to do something. So, I decided to book a hotel. It was the least I could do before figuring out how to take a lesson.

I made my reservation the old fashioned way—I actually called the hotel. No online deals. I’m not even really sure why I chose to do it that way; but it turned out to answer my question.

The reservation specialist asked me if I was coming into town for the French Quarter Festival.

“Uh—no,” I said. “I don’t even know what that is.”

Silence on the other end. Then a chuckle and an obvious sigh of condescension. “It’s the jazz festival in the French Quarter. All sorts of jazz bands performing in the streets,” she explained. “I thought that was why you were coming that particular weekend.”

What?!?!?! The stars have aligned?!?!?! Again?!?!? I randomly picked a weekend to go to New Orleans to take a jazz lesson and it so happened to be French Quarter Festival? What better place to learn about jazz than on the streets where it all began?

“Well in that case,” I said. “Yes, I am coming into town for the French Quarter Festival.”

When I arrived in New Orleans, I could feel the buzz and verve in the air from the start. As the shuttle stopped in the streets, dropping each of us at our respective hotels, I marveled at the people pausing to snap pictures in the middle of the road—oblivious to the traffic they caused; the sound of trumpets and drums merging together with the hum of laughter, and drifting through the air like an invisible compass to the city; and the smell of jambalya and gumbo swimming past my nose. It almost felt like the city itself was a living, breathing being; and we were all tiny creatures, enjoying our symbiotic relationship, as we inched across it.

There were booths set up through the streets, barricades put up to stop cars from getting through, and jazz instruments lined up with performers behind them. Every few feet that I walked, I heard different music and sounds; although, all had the same familiar beat of jazz vibrating through them. In some places, people danced in the middle of the street beside the band; in other places, they simply crowded around and clapped at the end of each song. Magicians wowed with cards and tricks; painters showed off their canvases; and voodoo shamans hovered around their amulets and charms.

I walked for some time before I built up the courage to go talk to the different performers. I told them about this blog, asked them about their instruments, and listened to them share their stories. Each fascinated me with their tales.

I met a man who told me he had been playing in the streets of New Orleans for twenty years—day and night, he sat with his guitar and his trumpet and performed.

“I’ve seen so many faces come through here,” he said. “All them faces have the same thing in common: a smile with life behind it. I like to think it’s my songs doing that for them.”

There was a band of young men in their twenties. They had known one another since childhood, and had grown up playing music together.

“You gotta bop your head,” one of them said to me. I bopped with him, doing my best to follow his lead. “Yeah, you got it. Feel the music in your body, and it’ll flow out through your hands.” He wiggled his fingers across his drums. “And out through your voice.” He bellowed.

A married couple sat on “their corner” and performed songs about betrayal and magical spells. They told me that each of them had been pursuing the dream of becoming a jazz musician since grade school. It was jazz that brought the two of them together. And now, with fifty years of wedded bliss behind them, they had a strong following of fans, all stopping to buy their CD and drop cash donations into their guitar casing.

The one thing that ALL of the musicians had in common? Outside of the obvious (jazz)? None of them would let me hold their instruments. They taught me the types of beats, the various scales, and the part of jazz history that meant the most to them. But when it came to letting me hold their instruments, they all said no…..which, of course they would and I understood. After all, it’s as though I asked a complete stranger if I could hold his baby. He may want to tell me all of the cute things his baby does, when his baby took his first step, and how very much he loves his baby; but he would never put that child in a stranger’s hands.

I took pictures and filmed their performances. However, without the proper permission, I do not feel comfortable posting them on the blog. But I want to thank all of them for teaching me about jazz—in particular, New Orleans jazz. It was such an interesting experience. And now, when I hear the sound of bass drums and trumpets, I’m taken back to all of the friends I made in the Big Easy, and all of the lessons they taught me.

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Mark and Me

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates.”—Mark Twain

By the time I arrived in Hannibal, it was late—too late to go sightseeing anyway. So the adventure started the next day. My hotel was across the street from Mark Twain’s childhood home, and so after breakfast, I walked toward the cobblestone path that would lead me into the past of a much-admired American author.

I bought my ticket for the self-guided tour, which started in a small museum that had pictures of the author attached to biographical information and quotes. It was fascinating to learn about the parts of his life that shaped him into the writer that he became—in particular, the loss of his father that turned a young boy into a grown man with grown up responsibilities practically overnight. The rebel in Tom Sawyer—his need to break free and “be a pirate”—became clear as I learned about Mark Twain’s own childhood.

After reading all of the facts posted on the wall beside the many photographs, I walked out to his house.

In the front was a portion of the white picket fence that shows up in Tom Sawyer, the one that Tom tricks his friends into washing. A bucket and brush sat beside it so that tourists could pretend they were painting the fence as they snapped pictures. People had scribbled their names across it—some with big hearts and happy faces drawn beside the letters. Once I had taken some photos for myself (and then subsequently took some for couples and families who wanted to pose together), I followed the marked path to the back of the home where we could enter. The rooms were blocked off with glass, scenes depicted in the different spaces throughout the house--the kitchen, the bedrooms, the library.

Props were set up to make it feel as though the house had been left untouched since Mark Twain’s last visit—marbles and spinning tops scattered on the bed, a shawl draped across the kitchen chair, spectacles resting on a pile of papers in the library. Mark Twain’s bedroom had a view of the Becky Thatcher house, and I wondered if their homes had really been across the street from one another and if a young Mark Twain would glance through his window to see his sweetheart, the one who became Becky in Tom Sawyer.

In the back, a pebbled walkway led to the childhood home of the boy who inspired Huck Finn (whose real name was Tom Blackenship).

He was a poor boy with seven siblings and a father who was known as the town drunk. And from all accounts, he and Mark Twain were inseparable. The house itself was small and shack-like, with an outhouse in front of it—it was a modern reproduction of the original home. It had only two rooms—a fireplace in each and wood floors throughout. I had to wonder how difficult it would have been to care for and raise so many children in such little space. It stood in stark contrast to the house I had just walked through, Mark Twain’s. On the walls were pictures and quotes from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. In one poster, there is a summary of the story: a boy who chooses to help a slave escape to freedom. This is a defining moment of the novel. Huck makes the decision to help Jim despite his fear of both society’s and God’s condemnation, saying, “all right then, I’ll go to hell.”

Across the street was the Becky Thatcher house, which was, sadly, closed for remodeling at the time of my visit. I could only see its exterior, although I wish I could have snuck in somehow to see Becky's world

Beside the Becky Thatcher house was the law offices where Mark Twain's father worked. It is presumably the courthouse that is described in Tom Sawyer. Inside were a desk, a judge’s gown, and benches. A sign outside of the office explained that Mark Twain once saw a dead body on the floor of this building, and rather than being scared, he felt annoyed because he had to climb out the window. Strange? Not really. Not if you consider the story of Tom Sawyer. Not if Mark Twain’s real world truly paralleled the stories he wrote. Then dead bodies found by young curious boys weren’t all together uncommon.

Down the street from the buildings flowed the Mississippi, and across it I could see the islands that likely represented Jackson Island where Tom Sawyer hid and formed a pirate gang with his friends. There were no ferries to take me there, but I sat in front of the river and contemplated everything I had seen as I stared off in its direction.

As I walked through each of these buildings, reading the descriptions and explanations, I thought about the author, and how his feet had tread through that space and his imagination had flourished. The streets were different—so much had changed from his time to ours—and yet these small spaces had been saved. There is a sense of fulfillment, as a writer, to see the world that inspires another writer, almost a calling or a feeling of home. Somehow as writers, I think we’re kindred spirits to one another. We can understand each other in ways that perhaps others can’t. We get how a dead body on the floor can inspire rather than terrify a young boy with a vivid imagination.

And maybe I hoped that as kindred spirits, Mark Twain’s could stir mine to persevere and pursue my dream of writing. To keep trying until the dream was realized. Maybe he’d be willing to help. Just maybe.

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Getting to Hannibal

Hannibal, Missouri, the childhood home of Mark Twain, is a small town with a population of roughly 17,000. It borders Illinois, and sits along the Mississippi River where people walk their dogs in the park, take strolls past the Old Mighty, and act cordial with the tourists. A railroad winds through it, sandwiched between the river and the city, the train blowing its horn as it chugs by at different times of the day.

This is where I chose to go “visit Mark Twain”. To touch and see the things that inspired him, and brought the story of Tom Sawyer alive.

The first challenge was getting there. Major flights flew into St. Louis. From there I could either rent a car and drive the 90 minutes to Hannibal or I could take a small plane (like a Cessna) to Quincy, Illinois where a shuttle service would drive me the twenty miles to my hotel, just across the street from Downtown. I planned to be in Hannibal only for one full day. Economically, renting a car would be more expensive. Emotionally, getting there in a Cessna plane would be too taxing.

You see, I have a fear of flying. I can get through it, clutching tightly to the armrest beside me during takeoff and landing (or the hand of whichever person sits beside me—strangers sometimes fall victim to this unfortunate habit of mine, and I’d like to take this opportunity to both apologize to and thank everyone whose arm has been on the receiving end of my nails). I don’t go into panic mode with the deep breathing and sweating and palpitations. I can actually control this fear well. But it’s one thing to control my fear of flying when I know I’ll be in a big plane—the ones that look like giants with steal wings and offer thirty rows with a variety of strategically marked exit routes. It’s another thing to fly in a toy plane, where there aren’t even thirty seats let alone rows.

So my choices were simple. I could drive to Hannibal—on the ground where God had perfected the gift of gravity—or I could fly in a toy plane—in the air where, for all I knew, a toddler would be powering the Cessna with a remote control.

So I made the logical choice.

I picked the Cessna.

Okay, so it’s not seemingly rational, you know, because of my fear of flying and all, but if you think about it, it’s the most reasonable choice for the blog. OBVIOUSLY I had to pick the thing I dread. Face my fears, right? Cessna it was.

Flying to St. Louis, the plane had sixteen rows. And that was small, per my standards anyway. I hoped the Cessna would be about the same size, maybe a few rows less—like, let’s say, twelve rows of seats, two seats on either side. That would give us 48 passengers. It wouldn’t be the largest plane I had flown in, but it would be enough. I could handle twelve rows with 48 passengers. No problem. (Yes, I was completely ignorant of what a Cessna really was. Blissfully ignorant and ignorantly hopeful).

When I arrived in St. Louis, I had to leave the secured area and return to the front check in. That’s weird, I thought. Usually for connecting flights, we’re automatically checked into the next one. It didn’t bother me, only annoyed me that I’d have to go through security again. Shoes off. Coat off. Belt off. And wait behind travelers who still didn’t know they had to remove all of those particles of clothing. Yes, people. Shoes off when you go through the metal detector. For like five years now.

I greeted the lady behind the desk, showed her my confirmation number and driver’s license.

“How much do you weigh?” she asked.

Gulp. Why did that matter? How small was this plane that my weight woulddetermine if I got on?

I smiled, replied and then asked, “Um, how many passengers does this plane seat?”

“Ten,” she said.

“Oh, ten” I said. She couldn’t mean the number of people. “As in rows?”

“As in passengers,” she said, lifting her eyebrow. “Two pilots. Eight travelers.”

WHAT?!?! There weren’t even 10 travelers on board? The pilots counted as passengers?!?!

She weighed my backpack and purse, and then directed me to my gate.

“Go down the escalator and make a left to security. After security, go all the way down Hallway C until you reach the end. When you get there, make another left. Then veer to the right. At the end of that hallway, veer left. Then go down the stairs. Don’t take the escalator. Take the stairs.” She looked up at me. Must have seen the sweat and pale skin. Then she said, “There are signs if you get lost. Just follow them.”

I nodded. Only signs? I wondered. Aren’t there people to help me if I get lost? Veer this way and that, go down this set of stairs and another, careful not to take the escalator. Where the heck was this gate anyway? In a dungeon?

Well, not a dungeon. But kinda close.

It was a small room on the lower level (really the basement) that opened out to the tarmac. There were seats and rocking chairs scattered around, and a small desk in the center with a nice TSA lady standing behind it.

I settled in and waited. There were three flights leaving from the same gate within a five-minute span of one another. Mine was scheduled as the first to go.

As the time grew close for them to board us on the plane, the TSA agent informed us that my plane was delayed because of mechanical problems, which would be resolved in a “few minutes.”

Uh oh. Not good. I was already terrified. And now the plane had mechanical problems, which they planned to “fix”, in a few minutes, nonetheless? Shouldn’t they be taking their time? What was the rush, anyway?

After fifteen minutes, she told us that they had to get a new plane and the flight would be delayed for another thirty minutes. The other two trips left, bumping us from first to go to last.

The other passengers and I started to chat. Almost all of them had flown on a small plane in the past and thought it was fun. Just me and one other person had never done it. We were quickly reassured that everything would be fine and that we’d get to our destination in no time.

Once the new plane arrived, they started to load the luggage. We stood from the gate and watched through the door. The suitcases didn’t fit. In and out they pulled them, playing a game of tetris with our bags. The TSA agent hurried outside to help. Even the pilot got out to lend a hand, wiping his brow as he struggled to squeeze everything into the Cessna. After ten minutes, they made it work. The bags were in. The aircraft was mechanically intact. We were ready. We watched as the agent walked back from the tarmac.

“There’s another snafu,” she said. “The front tire is flat. As soon as they change the tire, you guys are clear to go.”

Seriously? Another problem?

I wondered if it was too late to rent the car. After all, the woman behind the check-in desk had told me to look for the signs if I got lost. Were these the signs? Mechanical issues, baggage that didn’t fit, a flat tire. Was this a fear I shouldn’t be facing?

Before I had a chance to investigate the possibility of an exit strategy, we were lined up and ready to board. I slowed down and let everyone else (all seven of them) climb up the three steps into the plane.

Then I took a deep breath, glanced around, and with wobbly legs, got inside. There was only one seat left, right beside the door, which I took. I snapped on my seatbelt and stretched my hands out for the armrest. Except there were no armrests. I had nothing to sink my nails into. Great. Just great.

The pilot turned around and looked at us. He smiled.

He’s pretty young, I thought. Is he even old enough to be flying a plane? To have passed airplane school? Wonderful. I had the Doogie Howser of pilots. Why couldn’t I get Captain Sully?

“It’s a pretty sunny day,” he said. “And a little windy, which don’t make for very comfortable flying conditions.”

I’m sorry, uh, what? Perhaps we shouldn’t be flying then, I thought.

“So, we’ll have a pretty bumpy ride,” he finished. The he grinned again and faced forward.

The toyplane jolted across the runway, paused for a giant airplane crossing its path (I should be on that, I thought), and then continued on its way for take off.

The pilot turned around once again. “Are you ready?”

Everyone cheered. I nodded, and then sunk my nails into my seat cushion (which, in retrospect was probably not a good choice as that was also my probable floating device in the event of a water landing).

As the plane gained speed and floated up into the sky, my throat became dry, my neck grew wet with sweat, I felt dizzy and my heart pounded. Deep breaths. Just take deep breaths. I closed my eyes as that seemed to ward away the dizziness.

“It’s so beautiful,” the lady beside me said. “Look.”

I opened one eye and glanced out the window. Yup. Gorgeous. Closed the eye again.

“Sorry it’s so hot in the plane,” the pilot yelled over the snarl of the engine. “It’ll get cooler once we’re higher up in the air.”

I fanned myself with a magazine and clutched the seat as the plane swerved up and down through the sky. A couple screams from the other passengers. No idea why I didn’t scream too. Certainly not because I was more courageous. I think my throat was still too dry.

Once we were high enough in the air, it started to cool down. I stopped fanning myself. Okay so Captain Doogie seemed to know what he was talking about. The veering lessened. I loosened my grip on the cushion. The dizziness had stopped. I opened my eyes and looked out the window. I could see the Mississippi wide and glistening, curving beneath us.

It really was a majestic site. Unfortunately, I didn't have my camera with me (it was in my bag which was locked down in the wing of the plane). Otherwise, I would have shot some pictures to share. But, it looked amazing to see an American treasure like the Mississippi from the sky.

The air grew hot and the plane swerved again once we started our descent. But I have to hand it to Captain Doogie, it was one of the best landings I’ve ever experienced. No bumps at all.

I felt so grateful to feel the earth beneath my feet once we got out of the plane. The ground is so underappreciated, I thought, and almost kissed it, but refrained amongst strangers.

I had faced a major fear, which made me proud. But I also realized that if given a choice, I would never fly in a plane that small again. Ever. Then again, maybe it’s one of those things that grow on you with time, and I should never say never.

But really, never again.

That was my adventure to Hannibal. Now for my adventure in Hannibal with Mark Twain.

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Book Report

The Adventures of Tom Sawyer was one of the first stories that I remember reading. The mischievous boy from St. Petersburg, Missouri and his gang of friends and their adventures fascinated me. I still have my original hardback; its corners are tattered, the spine is loose, and its pages have yellowed with age—read, re-read and loved.

When I put my list together, I knew that I had to do something that showed my affection and respect for writers. Their stories have taken me on some of my greatest imaginary adventures. There are days when I think that I could loll in the corner of a room and read until dark. Nerdy? Some may think so. But I don’t. Nope. Not one bit. Books inspire, educate, change the world; the greatest novels were not written for money nor glory nor fame (although all of those things are certain to make any writer exuberant and willing to produce more), but rather to share a story that might touch the world the way it moves the writer in the alleys of his or her mind’s eye. Books are some of life’s greatest teachers.

As a child, I unearthed treasures like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Encyclopedia Brown, and The Boxcar Children; teenage angst taught me about true love in Pride and Prejudice and Romeo and Juliet, social injustice in To Kill a Mockingbird and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and classic must-reads like The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, and Jane Eyre.

Then as an adult, my appreciation for literature changed. I no longer read books just for leisure, nor did I read them just to discover parts of the world I understood little. I read them to learn how to be a better writer. All of my writer friends can attest to this fact. Yes. Let me say it again. I read in order to be a better writer. Don’t get me wrong, I still love the satisfaction of a brilliant story; but it’s more than that now. I want to be able to tell my tales in ways that stir my readers the way I have been moved by others’ writings. And so now, every book that I flip through tells me how to improve my art—some teach me because the work is, in my opinion, faultless. Others show me what not to do (which is often more valuable than the do’s that seem impossible to emulate).

As part of my resolutions, I decided to go to the places that inspired some of America’s greatest writers. So came the trip to Hannibal, Missouri—the childhood home of Samuel Langhorne Clemens, the writer I chose for the 2010 list. He is, of course, best known by his penname, Mark Twain—fantastical, witty and most beloved. I later found out by accident, luck, star alignment—whichever you choose to believe in—that 2010 is the year of Mark Twain. Ahh, perfection.

Before telling you about my adventure to Hannibal, I want to recap the great American novel, Tom Sawyer—a little dusting off of the story that captured my heart as a child, and then again as an adult when I reread it for this project. In order to fully appreciate the people and streets that inspired Mark Twain, we need to remember snippets of the novel that continue to breathe in the city that inspired it all.

Tom Sawyer is a twelve-year-old boy who lives with his Aunt Polly, brother Sid and cousin Mary in St. Petersburg, Missouri—a small made-up town along the Mississippi River. He has little attention for school, and instead muses the day with plans to get out of his chores; trade his trinkets with friends; master the art of piracy; and win the heart of his beloved, Becky Thatcher.

Early in the novel, the readers are introduced to Tom’s trickery as he convinces his classmates to fulfill his punishment: they get to whitewash the fence in his place and he gets to be the new owner of their treasures (some of which aren’t such treasures to anyone other than a twelve-year-old boy—a half eaten apple, a dead rat, a couple of tadpoles, a dog-collar-but no dog, four pieces of orange peel, and a key that wouldn’t unlock anything). As the story progresses, we meet Huck Finn—the son of the town drunk and the boy every kid in St. Petersburg wants to befriend. One night, the two sneak out and go to the town graveyard where they witness Injun Joe commit a murder; the two make a pact sealed in blood to never speak a word about what they’ve seen to anyone.

We also discover Tom’s love for Becky Thatcher—the new girl in town to whom Tom proposes. She accepts, only to turn on him after discovering that this is not Tom’s first proposal. Tom is dejected and heartbroken, and runs away with Joe Harper and Huck Finn to Jackson Island to begin his career as a pirate. They educate themselves on the skills of piracy, all the while knowing that their loved ones believe them to be dead, drowned in the Mississippi. Tom comes up with a plan to show up at their funerals and “surprise everyone” in town, becoming the envy of all of their friends.

Later, Tom and Huck go searching for buried treasure in a haunted house. They hide after hearing some noises and then spy Injun Joe enter the house where he finds a box of hidden gold. Huck follows him in an attempt to take the gold and discovers that Injun Joe has plotted to attack the Widow Douglas.

In the midst of Huck’s pursuit to stop Injun Joe, Tom and Becky get lost in a cave. As they begin to run out of food and candles, they discover that Injun Joe is using the cave as his hideout. Tom eventually finds a way out and is hailed as a hero. Injun Joe is not so lucky; he perishes in the cave. Huck and Tom find the gold, Huck is adopted by the Widow Douglas, and Tom forms a robber band so that his adventures can go on.

This story gives way to The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the next of Mark Twain’s classic novels. This one, however, has deeper, racial undertones that tell of a boy running away with a slave along the Mississippi River in search of freedom. It is a phenomenal story that has been carved in history. I last read it five years ago and so I will not summarize it here now. But, it is on my "to read" list so that I can revisit the tale once more.

I want to end with a Mark Twain quote that seems so in line with the mission of this blog:

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Here's to exploring, dreaming and discovering. If I had a glass of champagne in my hand, I would lift it in toast.

Now for my adventure to Hannibal...

I like to move it, move it

Before I started this blog, I had heard about Zumba, but wasn’t certain what it was. Here’s what I thought: an exercise routine that combines latin dance moves. Here’s what it is: an exercise routine that combines latin dance moves. Yay! I was right. On the official zumba website, http://www.zumba.com/us, they describe it as “hypnotic Latin rhythms and easy-to-follow moves to create a one-of-a-kind fitness program that will blow you away.” A dramatic description, yes, but it’s not that far from the truth.

Zumba fell under the “to be fit” category of resolutions. But it wasn’t just about doing something healthy. I very simply wantedto take a dance class—to swing my hips and shake my rump. My sister is an avid dancer who can ballroom like nobody’s business. And she always encourages me to take a lesson. Dance is to her what writing is to me. I always understood her passion for it, but never felt the same—at least not enough to want to engage in a class with an instructor leading me in circles around the room. When I started listing off my resolutions for this blog, I thought that adding a dance class would be nice. I could finally try what my sister had been recommending for years. But, I didn’t know which one to take—samba, cha cha, merengue, waltz, jazz, jive. So many choices, so little space in the “Resolutions box.” That’s when I decided to zumba. I could get a little flavor of all of the different latin dances—see what all of my sister’s fuss was about—and then sift through all of the options for an official dance class at a later, non-Resolutions-related time.

Last week my sister came for a visit. What better tribute to the dancer than to take her to zumba, right? So, I dragged her along for this resolution, knowing that she would look graceful as she shimmied while I looked uncoordinated as I tried to keep up with the instructor.

We entered the building after she forced me to take a bunch of pre-class pictures, posing in the parking lot of the recreation center in positions that we thought resembled Zumba (Example to your right).

The studio was large with a mirror across one wall. How fun. We could watch ourselves as we jiggled (I wasn't sure how I felt about this). I introduced myself to the instructor, explained the blog and the reason Iwas taking the class. He was shocked that I would only be taking one class and assured me that I would be back. He then promised that I wouldn’t look awkward because it was impossible to look clumsy in Zumba.

He said (shaking his shoulders as he spoke), “You just move and have fun.”

Just move and have fun. I can do that, I thought.

The instructor turned on the music and we started our warm up to “I like to move it” by Reel 2 Real. (Remember that song? Mmm hmm. You’re humming it right now, I know. “I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. I like to move it, move it. Ya like to. MOVE IT!). And then the shaking and the grinding and cha cha cha-ing began. We did every Latin dance move you can imagine—from salsa to reggaeton. Yup, I reggaeton’d. My favorite move, actually. And highly recommended to anyone who wants to have fun.

Within 15 minutes I was tired and wondered how I would get through another 45 minutes. The trick that I didn't know was that I would get through it because it didn't feel like working out.

There's no video footage as proof. Sorry. That was not going to be documented for the world to see. But, we did take some pictures of me in the “proper” Zumba positions.

The instructor was right. I will go back this week. Why wouldn't I? It's like going dancing with friends--except that they're all strangers--at first anyway. And it's a good time!

Just move and have fun. Zumba's motto. Shouldn’t that be life’s motto too?

Just Call Me Yogi

So this resolution did not go the way I had planned. Oh it got done—don’t fret about that. “Getting it done” is the only guarantee in this blog. Each of these resolutions will be completed…

…just maybe not in the way I imagine or map out in my head. And that is something I’m quickly learning—these entries are not just about fulfilling my resolutions; they are moments of self-discovery in the most unexpected ways.

I’ve taken Yoga many times before. And though I have always enjoyed it—the stretching and breathing and moments of zen—yoga never affected me the way it seems to touch others. Which is why I was so excited about the Candlelight Flow. It was Yoga—but more me. This is the kind of yoga that will influence me the way it influences my friends, I thought. I was absurdly excited about it. But it had to wait until the end of the month before I could take the class.

There are only a few places in LA that offer it—one on Wednesday nights, the other on Fridays. I work nights—every weeknight, except one Friday each month. And so Candlelight Flow had to wait until the end of February.

The plan: go to class with Jen (henceforth known as RPC—Resolutions’ Partner in Crime as she seems to be involved in each of the resolutions so far) and then dinner afterwards (I mean—what’s the point in 90 minutes of stretching and sweating if you can’t double the intake of calories you’ve just burned off? Jeesh. Where’s the fun in that?)

I drove the thirty minutes to Sherman Oaks, climbed up the steps to the studio to meet Jen and sign up for the class. Just walking into the place made you feel more relaxed. The ground was made of hardwood flooring, the wall was stacked with mats against the wall, the drinks and snacks were organized on a table, soothing music whispered in the background, and a very friendly “welcomer” sat behind the desk.

He smiled. I smiled. And then I waited, wondering if he was going to show me the way—what I was supposed to do, where I was supposed to go for my hour and a half of tranquility. He just kept grinning, and so I glanced around. This was the right place, right? I mean, the music, the mats, the zen floor—but the friendly welcomer just stared at me, his brown curls spiked up around his head, and I stared back. Then finally…

“So, is this where I sign up? I asked. He stared. “For—yo—ga?”

“Well, I certainly hope so,” he replied as he motioned to a clipboard on the counter in front of him.

Ok then. I signed my name and then looked at him. He smiled.

“Should I pay now, or…?” I started. It was like pulling teeth to get this guy to give me some direction.

“Well I certainly hope so,” he answered. He sure does a lot of hoping, I thought. “Cash or Credit?”

“Cash,” I said as Jen walked through the door. Thank God, I thought, a face I recognize. I was beginning to feel weird around Curly.

And as she paid for her entrance to the class, a man beside me grabbed a key dangling off a long wooden handle on the wall next to me and opened the door beside the key. Ah, the bathroom key, I thought. Good to know. We need a key to use the bathroom.

Then, like waddling penguins, we followed the mass of people into the only open room in the studio, laid out our mats, and waited for class to start. The instructor lowered the lights, mounted her I-Pod to a surround-sound stereo, closed the door and settled down before us.

I looked around the studio. Where are the candles? I glanced up at the chandeliers. Is that what they consider candlelight flow? A dimly lit room? I tried to reread the class description in my head. Did it actually say there would be candles? Or is it just symbolic of a darkened room?

Jen didn’t seem to notice anything peculiar, and so I decided I must have read it wrong. I shrugged. Maybe this wouldn’t be the type of Yoga I had anticipated, but it was Yoga nonetheless.

And so the stretching began. This ain’t so bad, I thought as we entered into our first stretch (legs apart, torso down, hands wrapped around one foot). I can reach my feet, no problem.

“This is the first in our series of long stretches,” the instructor said. “So take it easy. Don’t push yourselves yet.”

I loosened my grip. What does she mean, “long stretch”? How many minutes are we talking here? I refocused. Think about your breathing—in and out, in and out. But after five minutes of breathing, I was getting tired and my hamstrings were begging for mercy. And this was a stretch I could handle. What else did she have in store for us?

We switched legs and then entered into different positions—not so bad, but not so easy either. And then came the One-Legged King Pigeon Pose—a stretch I would come to know as my nemesis.

Oh-my-god. This was the most uncomfortable position any person could be in. Why in the world would anyone choose to do this voluntarily? And from the sound of the grunts and groans around me, I knew I wasn’t the only one declaring war against this pose. It can’t get worse than this, I thought.

And then the instructor said, “This is the second long stretch of the night.”

I was wrong. It had just become worse. Judging by the first long stretch of the night, I’d be looking like a one-legged pigeon for a while. My hips burned, my right leg (bent beneath my torso) didn’t feel like it belonged to me anymore, and my left leg (stretched out behind me) was beginning to feel numb. Focus on your breathing—in and out, in and out. Just focus, I kept repeating in my head.

“Take your final breath,” the instructor said. “And release.” Oh sweet God, kinder words had never been spoken. I creaked out of the position I was stuck in, feeling like a ninety year old man getting out his chair after watching TV for too long.

And then she said, “Now switch legs.”

I quickly realized that my left leg was not as willing to bend beneath me as the right one had been. This was by far the most unpleasant shape my body had been forced into. And it was a long stretch.

When we were finally released, I wasn’t sure I could unfold my body back to normal. It genuinely took effort. But my legs and hips felt so loose afterwards. Loose and relaxed.

By the time the class had ended, my entire body felt less tense, my breathing felt more regular, and my mind was clearer.

We got into the prayer pose and held it for some time, breaths moving in and out.

“Namaste,” the instructor said. Literal meaning, I bow to you. My favorite figurative translation, the best in me greets the best in you.

“Namaste,” the class repeated.

Then as we all broke out of our meditative state, stretched our bodies and continued to breath deeply, Jen turned to me and said, “So where were all of the candles?”

Ah-hah! So I wasn’t the only one wondering about the candles!

We gathered our belongings, walked out of the room, and decided to ask someone. The only person there? Yup, Curly.

“So, is there a candlelight class too?” I asked, as nonchalantly as possible.

Curly smiled. And then slowly nodded. Of course he wouldn’t make it easy. The teeth pulling resumed.

“Did it already start?” I asked.

He nodded. And then pointed to the door beside the key that had been dangling on the wall. I arched my eyebrow. The candlelight class was held in the bathroom? That was the immediate thought that flittered through my head. Then reality struck. The key was not for the bathroom, it was to open the second studio where Candlelight Flow was held.

Jen and I looked at one another, and then giggled. We had totally gone to the wrong class.

We walked out of the building and down the steps to our cars.

“I’m kinda annoyed,” I said. “I can’t believe we missed the class.”

Jen laughed and then told me about the Happiness Project (http://www.happiness-project.com/). It was a book and blog that I had heard about, but not read.

“The writer has a moment where she realizes that she gets frustrated when things don’t happen the way she plans. And then she ultimately realizes that she needs to learn how to laugh at herself," Jen said. Then she leaned toward me. “You need to laugh at yourself more.”

And she was right.

What I learned from this resolution: the left side of my body is way tighter than my right; I really do enjoy Yoga, even if it feels like torture, and I will probably continue to take classes—especially the Candlelight Flow; that there’s nothing wrong with asking questions, even to people like Curly who are difficult to get information out of; that I shouldn’t assume that a key dangling from a wooden handle is for the bathroom; that things will rarely work out the exact way I plan; and that I need to learn to laugh at myself.

And so as I greet the best in you with the best in me, I laugh.

Because at the end of the day, it's the laughs that I will remember the most.

Namaste.