I am November in Tennessee

I just returned from spending the Thanksgiving holiday in Illinois. I could not wait to drive south, counting the hours. Tennessee is becoming my home.

November is an ambivalent month here. Not sure whether to hang onto the last throes of the summer, or to let it all go in hopes for what is waiting in the turn of the year.

Many of the fall colors are still bright, and an abundance of green remains below the tree line amongst the shrubs. Tennessee does not want to relinquish itself to the chill of winter, resisting fiercely as the night temperatures fall into the 20's and 30's, still pulling itself up by the bootstraps into the 50's when the sun is high.

Chicago, however, has given herself over to the voice of the wind whistling through a field of corn cut down to its roots. She lets out a dignified sigh as the leafblowers and fires hum and burn the last signs of summer away. There is no turning back now. She can only move forward, braving the months ahead, closing her eyes until the moss periscopes rise up in the spring.

I am November in Tennessee. Taking each day slowly, cautiously, wincingly, timidly. Searching frantically for the green that will inevitably take its leave. Planting flowers in the cold, yet still separable, soil.

I envy Illinois for her courage to ride with the wind and keep it at her back.

November in Franklin

Burgundy maples
Lemon oaks
Hills of confetti
Pansies alone and blooming--will they make it through the winter?
Temperature fluctuations--51-->79-->autumn monsoon-->40-->65-->23 and frost
Good thing that the "going out in the cold with wet hair causes pneumonia" warning is a myth
My winter coat remains in a box in storage. It is having an identity crisis.

Gathering things

In Illinois, I marked the beginning of fall as the goldenrod heads turned mustard yellow and the cornstalks brown. Here, in Tennessee, the order is backwards, with the corn showing not a streak of green anymore and the goldenrods still imitating flowerless weeds as they grow above the rest of the flora. Summer is not priceless here. It is simply too long, and I find myself wishing it away.

I am living in that window of time where the present and the past coincide, and every moment of everything that will soon be gone forever is imprinting itself permanently into my mind. The swirls on my living room ceiling, the way the air conditioning sounds when the motor first hums, the red velvety flowers growing in minimal abundance by the river behind my house because I threw the seeds down last year, the spiders in my garage defending their laborously-made egg sacs, the hostas I planted 3 years ago that have finally filled in around the tree.

It is easiest to recognize happiness when one is sad. Black that is blended with brown results in a hue that is barely changed from its progenitors. But mix some white into the concoction and the contrast becomes clear. Once a solution is oversaturated with a substance, the remainder precipitates out and cannot be used to its full potential. A lamp in a dark room is noticed before a lamp in a room filled with sunlight.

And so goes my disclaimer about this blog: that it will not always be fun, but sometimes just a container to hold my humble confessions. I will forgive anyone who chooses to pass it by.

106 degrees

In all my life (short or long, depending on which end of the spectrum you're viewing 35 years from), I have never been engulfed by such heat while ambulatory. I say "ambulatory" because I have experienced 106 degrees or more during a 15 minute jaunt in the sauna, and while lying recumbent in the covered bed of a truck. But those were both enjoyable activities. The soft breeze was burning my eyeballs.

The Weather Channel people slapped an orange "HOT" right in the middle of Tennessee on the U.S. map. They're from Florida, so something must be really wrong. As I was leaving work today I noticed that the air smelled like BBQ. While this type of cuisine is highly sought after in the South, I was nowhere near a restaurant. I told my husband that it must be the skin of the construction workers frying off. He laughed, safe in an air conditioned building.

My house received 2 offers on Monday, and the closing may be at the end of this month. So I get to go back home to Illinois for the weekend, moving as unprofessionally as possible by pulling the boxes down from the top of the garage that were placed up there when we originally moved in. Only now the boxes have warped from the heat and will need to be stacked by matching crooked oblong sides rather than neat rectangle piles.

Maybe I should pack jeans and a sweatshirt--it's only going to be 90 degrees! I never thought I'd be thankful for the gift of a 90-degree relief from the heat, but my whole internal thermometer has reset itself in the 2 months I've lived here. If only that were so easy for other things, like my heavy foot on the gas pedal and my tolerance (or lack thereof) for country music.

Just like in Chicago, this heat wave will most certainly produce a number of deaths, but the morticians here are all over it. On my way to work this morning (when it was only in the high 80's) I passed a rather large hearse (or to be politically correct, a "funeral coach"). It was a black pick-up truck with a cover adorned by the typical decorative landau bars. Pretty classy for Nashville. Two for the price of one, and as a bonus, environmentally friendly. After all, you know how those Ozone Alert days can be killers.

Dental Accessories Assembled During Lunch

Back to the cardiac lecture I go, but first a detour to the restroom for breath control.

Pizza is a risky venture when you haven't brought a toothbrush to work.

Dried sauce caked around the corners of the mouth. Dough crammed into the spaces between each tooth to make them appear conjoined, like those candy wax molds I used to goof off with when I was a kid. And then, the dreaded basil sprig wedged splat in the middle of the front teeth.

A couple of swishes of water may serve to loosen up that little bugger.

Maybe if I position the holdout particle between my front teeth it will look like a small space--a clean vacancy showcasing a display of ivory.

It's not working! Basil is still recognizable as a foreign object in my mouth. What the hell?! I have to get back to class. By now they've probably already started, but I can't go in like this. I'll forget about it in the drone of the lecture and end up smiling in a false display of fascination, and then it will make its unwanted appearance.

I have nothing to work with here. Maybe this paper towel will do. Just roll it into a tiny point, jam it in there forcefully, and joila! Okay, let's try that one more time. Roll, jam...come on already, get the hell outta there!

Ah, perfectly positioned. After my braces came off my wisdom teeth pushed my perfect smile askance. This is a good look for me now. Maybe I'll carry around a small container of dried chopped basil instead of gum. Parsley would also do the trick, but it wouldn't give that fresh herbal scent to my breath.

Finally, freedom from the mirror. As I pass through the classroom door and greet my coworkers, I notice a piece of toilet paper hanging off the back of my shoe.

High School

My eldest daughter has attended private schools her entire life. Not the expensive, how-to-manage-your-hired-help situated on 120 acres with horseback riding lessons type, but simply run-of-the-mill suburban parochial institutions. This will be her first year in a public system.

She was very worried about fitting in, as if public school students are an alien species. I researched the school districts in Middle Tennessee until my computer iced over, and finally decided upon one that made the U.S. News and World Report top 1000 in the country.

Out came my old yearbooks with an enthusiastic fervor, in hopes that I could demonstrate to Aubrey the essence of public school. I lovingly flipped to the back page, and in a fit of nostalgia read the autographs from old friends out loud.

"Until we bomb the Middle East..." (this was in 1990)
"Lucifer lives..."
"The Sly will provide..."

"I thought you said that public school kids were normal," Aubrey responded glibly.

"Uh, let's look at something else."

I was part of the "independent thinking" group (of which my group despised the assumption that we were actually a group). And yet, still a choir geek...

"How about this choir program from my junior year? Look, there I am dancing to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy." Groans are heard from the sidelines.

I wonder if I am doing my children a disservice by moving to this place, where you can be passed by three or four BMW's and surrounded by Lexi on 3 sides while driving a 1-mile stretch of road. Will they understand life, know that humanity, nature and God are the basis of all things--that "things" are not the basis of anything but burgeoning superficiality, and ignore the blatant fact that 1/4 of the senior class drives brand new Mustangs? Will they still like to bargain hunt with their mom, or will I be an embarrassment to their Brentwood-raised way of life?

Today begins the weekend frenzy of sales tax-free shopping for school supplies and clothes. Brentwood is one of the wealthiest towns in Tennessee, and she knows it. I think that we will stop at the Goodwill store before hitting the mall this time.

Orientation Classes at the New Job (Dialysis Lecture)

My mind is slowly sliding down from doodling dementia into a catatonic cave. Get those eyes up! No, better yet, hoist that heavy lump attached to your shoulders and look straight at the fluorescent lights overhead that mockingly glare as if to say "We will not let you sleep, but will annoy you enough to make you want to sew your eyelids shut!"

The problem here is that my brain has exceeded its daily learning capacity. Like an overstretched stomach that spews forth its contents in rebuke, my neurons have hung an invisible "Do Not Disturb" sign across my forehead.

There is only so much information that can be forcefully crammed into my brain before it comes seeping out from my ears.

Driving

Today the Williamson County Clerk chipped away at a little more of my identity. With Illinois license plates expiring July 31st, I was faced with the dilemma of whether I should pay my home state $78 and break the law just so that I can have my speed-limits-are-merely-guidelines driving justified by my association with the north, or be a good citizen of the state of Tennessee and try to blend in. Considering that I was stopped by "the law" the other day for cruising through my small town at 48 m.p.h. in a 30, I felt it best to comply.

But I will not go quietly. I am still clinging to my Illinois driver's license, even though you are supposed to obtain one from Tennessee if you live here more than a month. So as long as I set the cruise control at 30 when I spot the greeting "Welcome to our Town" on a faded wooden sign, I should be able to slide on through with nary a glance from the authorities.

My in-laws warned me that everyone is so nice here in the south--almost absurdly friendly. But it is good to know that government employees are the same no matter where you go, especially those associated with motor vehicles.

"Soccer Mom"

My mother-in-law demoted me to a "soccer mom" this morning, as I cajoled my kids out of the air conditioning and into the typical 80 degree (but with sun feels like 90's) morning with mommy bag slung on the shoulder devoid of chocolate-enhanced drool (it has far more functionality than to deserve the name "diaper bag;" anyways, didn't I grow out of that term when my oldest hit high school?).

Frankly, I was rather offended by the comparison. My world is so much less put together than the one which I imagine the soccer mom inhabits, and I take pride in that.

1. She drives a sleek aerodynamic minivan, preferably a Honda Odyssey. I drive a clumsy Astro van with the window knocked out. Okay, this is just until tomorrow when we are able to get it into the body shop, but until then I will proudly cover the frame with a Chicago Bears towel.

2. The soccer mom's vehicle is clean. At night when everyone is sleeping, a magical fairy comes and vacuums away the chunks of half-chewed granola bars and vaporizes the dirty diapers left from the emergency gas station stop (a last resort for leakiness).

3. She carries a bottle of Spray-N-Wash at all times in order to fend off permanent staining to hers or the children's clothes. My family's trademark is crusty leftovers stuck to whatever part of the body is at the nearest point when the food falls. My son's right shoulder sleeve has become a portable napkin.

4. Her children have neat hair. My baby searches wildly among her head for any attachments and promptly rips them out. My 4-year-old son's whorl has earned permanent Alfie status. Water, gel, mousse, super glue, cement--nothing will touch it.

C. Moonflower

Introduction to my very first blog

Hello,
My name is Clementine Moonflower, henceforth to be my online pseudonym.

After dedicating a few seconds of deep thought to the process, I've decided to start a blog based on the experiences of a nearly-lifetime Chicagoan now residing in Tennessee.

I will refrain from disclosing too much information just now. What then would I have left to say in future postings? I do hope that you will enjoy my own special blend of sarcastic humor and emotional rhetoric, as well as partially blurred photos from my digital camera. I'm looking forward to sharing it with anyone who ventures to stop by this webpage.

Perhaps therapy, perhaps writing practice. Maybe a combination of both.

Talk to you soon,

C. Moonflower

P.S.--Here is my original "about me" intro. I changed it on October 23, 2009.

I grew up in the south suburbs of Chicago. I am the Sox fan (although don't ask me to name any of the players), and he is the Cubs fan.

In June 2007, my family and I moved to Tennessee. That is what this blog is mostly about--learning to adapt, but not quite enough to assimilate.

We miss major league baseball and snow, but not the cold snaps and having to wear 2 layers of everything in the winter. We love the sun yet miss the rain, and find the bugs interestingly dreadful.

I love the biodiversity of the trees growing here, but not the poison ivy that climbs comfortably up each one in my backyard.

And most of all, the "You're not from around here, are you?" question has lost its cuteness and novelty.