Tippecanoe Indeed

The Lie

This summer, I've been staying with my aunt and uncle. It's a gorgeous stone-and-wood house, nestled back in the forest away from the road. The Tippecanoe river flows behind us, gentle and tugging. It was storming outside when I woke this morning, smacking the windowpanes of my bedroom, bending the trees and rippling the surface of the river. Gray rain danced and spat. Later in the day, with the Tippecanoe nice and high, I went kayaking.

I went with my aunt. We paddled our way upstream, past banks hedged with rushes and rotten logs, where mallards hunted for insects. We paddled about an hour, then reached the bridge where the road passes over the river and flipped our noses around to let the current carry us back. I dug an apple from my pocket. We'd both brought chilled Pepsi's, and my aunt hissed hers open while I slipped into the river, resting my stomach on the kayak and paddling gently with my legs, just enough to stay on course. I went slightly ahead, finding it surprisingly easy to navigate by sometimes trailing my body in the water and sometimes swimming alongside. But I glanced back when my aunt made a slightly strangled sound.

Somehow, her kayak had gone sideways and was being pressed against a log by the current, unable to move forward and unable to move over to the side. An easy problem, one that could happen to anyone. Aunt Sharon managed to thrust her kayak away from the log, but it was still sideways, and the river threatened to capsize it. It teetered on its edge for a moment, my aunt leaning desperately back the other way as she clung to her glasses, her oar, and her Pepsi . . . and then the kayak righted. It stabilized in the water for a moment.

Then something grabbed it.

Two arms, looking freakishly like rotten tree limbs, stabbed up through the water and seized my aunt's kayak. She gasped in a dignified manner, and I think I may be guilty of having shrieked like a little ten-year-old. A face and a body followed the arms, bearded in river-weed and garbed in scales of sodden leaves. Mud swirled around him from the torso down.

With his rotten arms, he seemed to be searching for something. He finally located the shining can bobbing upright in the river. Aunt Sharon's Pepsi. Both our eyes widened -- would the Rivergod punish us for dragging human pollution into his sacred domain? -- but he grunted, tilting his head back and pouring a gleaming amber arc down his throat. He wiped a sloppy hand over his lips, and said, "Catch that Pepsi Spirit," voice deep and vibrating like a bullfrog. Then the limbs and river-weed and rotten leaves tumbled apart into the river, all drifting away as separate pieces. Only a single, shining blue can remained, bobbing gently. My aunt and I looked at each other. She fished out the empty can. And we never spoke of it again.

Another lie: this pic is actually from several years ago, but same pic and same kayak.

The Truth

Aunt Sharon and I did go kayaking today. Everything happened up to the point where the kayak righted itself and the Rivergod arose. The kayak actually did flip over, and we spent awhile draining it and getting my aunt situated again. True fact, though: the can really remained upright and bobbing in the water. And unless my research is mistaken, "Catch that Pepsi Spirit" was the company slogan for 1980-1981.

Also, as I finish writing this lie, the sky has just turned an odd shade of orangey-gray and has started to thunder and storm. I rather like it.

Haunted by Memory

The Lie

I sat on the couch in the living room, fingers chattering away on my keyboard. Just half an hour left in my daily writing exercise. I paused, grasping for words, as so often happens. And, in the quiet of the pause -- I heard a voice.

I cocked my head, thinking it was Aunt Sharon. I'd kind of assumed she had lain down for a nap, but . . . no. Definitely not her voice. It was soft, cooing, slightly silly. I stood and walked into the office. No one there.

I could still hear the voice, though, and babyish laughter, like the echoes of a young mother teasing her infant. But I couldn't make out specific words. Then the sounds faded away. Nothing. I rubbed my ears, thoroughly shaken, and returned to my nest on the couch.

Just as I sat, I was jerked to my feet again -- more voices came, now from the kitchen. Although I still couldn't make out words, I knew as I drew closer that it was a young mother talking to her elementary-aged son. But all sounds of mother and son faded as I reached the kitchen, and then more sounds kicked up, calling from the garage.

I went out, looked at the disused skateboards hung on the wall. A barrel of deflated soccer-balls sat underneath them, abandoned for years. This time, in the garage, I heard the sound of a car purring to life, and a mother -- an older version of the same mother, I thought -- saying something about college. She sounded tearful.

I went back to my couch. I started to write. And half an hour later, as my aunt greeted me after her nap, I placed the voice. The voice of a mother with grown children.

The Truth

While I was sitting on the couch today, I really did hear the voices of a young mother and her infant. It was terrifying, especially since I'd thought I was alone in the house. Every time I tried to listen, the voices would fade. But it wasn't any specter of memory waiting for me in the office -- it was my aunt, on facebook, watching videos of a friend playing with her new baby.

But have you ever noticed how a home seems haunted by memories? I think it's more powerful when you return to a place after years away. The bathroom with the red splotch where your brother threw up strawberries on the wall. The hallway where you wrestled with your brother, and he bit you. The closet where you hid for hours to scare your sister.

I find it especially potent when I return to my old home in Nigeria. Any stories or memories that you'd care to share in the comments?

Lies about Lightning

So if I'm really going to do this Daily Lie thing, I guess I'd better get started, huh? Funny how that works.

The Lie

I rubbed my eyes, then continued scrolling on my laptop, perusing a blog post. I was reading The Monday Heritic, specifically a post about espousing opinions nicely. Outside, lighting cracked the gray sky and thunder rattled the windows. Rain drummed fingers on the river flowing beside my aunt and uncle's house.

"Unplug your laptop, Luke." I remembered Mom always saying that during thunderstorms. Of course, that was back home in Africa, with faulty wiring and real storms. The same problem couldn't be here.

BOOM!

My head jerked up, eyes widening, lips pulling into a silent "O. Quicker than an angry opinion, electricity leapt from the electric socket and jittered down my computer chord, winding and interlacing and spinning into my laptop . . . the screen flared . . . a POP, then everything went black!

Aunt Sharon shook me awake.

"Errrmmm. Kardashummum's ish shtupieed!"

"Ron, he's waking up! Luke, what did you say?"

"I don' ker aboud David Letterman'sh finalesh!"

"What say?"

"Ah!" My eyes popped open. Everything was blurry. But more than the returning vision, facts, ideas, and online convo threads churned through my mind. It all came back: a post about opinions, lightning, and now, I had superpowers! I was . . . Opinion Man, Champion of Truth, Battler of Bigots, Right about Everything! At least, it would've been nice, wouldn't it?

The Truth

Obviously, I'm not always right. Most times I eat my words as a side to my humble pie, after I take my foot out of my mouth. You really should read Amy Green's blog post, linked above. Wise words, much more meaningful than a lie about lightning. The truth was that there was a storm outside my aunt and uncle's house, but I actually did unplug my laptop, thanks to memories of mom. A shame. If not, I really might have superpowers!

face-lift

You've probably noticed the massive face-lift I gave to this blog, unless you're as blind as this:

If you are that blind, the face-lift comment was probably insensitive. But on the upside, you'll never know it!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy the changes to the blog. They were much needed, and help to dull my embarrassment at the horribly unprofessional look I had with this blog. A social-media guru I am not. I'm sure I'm still doing many things wrong, but hopefully I'm getting closer . . . ?

You may enjoy looking at some of the sections I added. They're all explained when you click on the tabs. Hopefully, more is to come in the future days. Thanks for reading! Any comments or suggestions on the new look?

Patrick Rothfuss kisses a llama.

Wherein one of my favorite author's kisses a llama. For charity.

Also, here's a link to HIS blog post about it:Pat kissing llamas

Silent Night

So, my college did a thing. Actually, we've been doing it for thirty years; a pretty cool thing, in fact. If I have my facts straight, ESPN has actually named it as a top-ten college sports traditions in America, and they send guys to film it each year, which is pretty cool. My residence floor usually gets special notice by the camera people, cause we're crazy.

What is the thing? It's called Silent Night, a Taylor tradition where, for the basketball game played at home during the weekend before finals, practically EVERY student on campus shows up to spectate, most in full costume . . . and no one says anything. Nope; for ten points, it's completely silent. No clapping, no cheering, no drama. BUT YOU SHOULD SEE THAT TENTH POINT. Craziness ensues, with students mobbing the courts and everyone screaming and they actually pause the game for us. Eventually we return to the sidelines, but we don't stop screaming before the end of the game, at which time we all file over to the dining commons for Christmas cookies and karaoke, and President Habecker's wife reads us the story of Christ's birth.

Here's a cbs sports article about Silent Night: http://www.cbssports.com/collegebasketball/eye-on-college-basketball/24869579/taylor-universitys-silent-night-gives-us-another-memorable-moment.
In the videos, you might notice a swarm of yellow-and-black clad figures buzzing the court . . . that's my floor. Naw, we're not firemen; we're supposed to be bees. We're fun like that.

Anyway, it's a pretty cool tradition. Along with the craziness, this year a group of students also held up signs saying #blacklivesmatter, in recognition of all that's going on in Ferguson. I'm proud of my school for using the publicity to present a stance on things, and also to enjoy themselves and enjoy the insanity.

And here's a longer video of last year's Silent Night

the Word

the Word 

There once was a man with a silver sword 

Who whispered an almost forgotten word. 

The word grew loud though the man didn’t shout 

Soon other men tasted it inside their mouths. 

The word spread wide like a poisonous cough 

Till the king of the land had heard it enough. 

He built a great fire and burnt the black word 

And he slaughtered the man with the silver sword. 

But the word whispered soft from among the flames 

Twisted with smoke, all faded and gray. 

Throughout the wide kingdom, the word was heard 

And no man could kill that absurd little word. 

The word became twisted the further it grew 

It rotted and blistered near all the way through. 

But the green heart remained with the sap of the word 

Till along one day came a silver sword. 

It pierced the word to its greenwood heart 

And discerned the root of the word’s many parts. 

And they say that the word will be whispered again 

By the man at the desk with the silver pen.