Category: Letter From The Editor

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Both Gray and Bright

The view from my window (Photo: Shara Clark)

I’m writing this on election day. A steady, light rain is trickling down outside my window, the pitter-pattering a calming sound. The sun shines beyond the clouds, but the blue sky is obscured. It’s both gray and bright, with a smattering of yellow and orange leaves in the foreground, ready to shed for the season. 

This morning, many of my Facebook friends are sharing in jest what side dishes they’ll bring to the Civil War. Some are posting the reasons they’re steadfast in their choice of voting for Kamala. On the other side, I’ve seen, “If you were looking for a reason to delete me: TRUMP 2024.” While I have my own thoughts and moral standings regarding this presidential election and its candidates, I won’t shout those out here. Each of us is entitled to an opinion, and there’s not much I can do to shift yours. Between endless news coverage and social media, we’ve already been inundated with political ads and info meant to sway us in one direction or another — or more so, to deepen the divide between this country’s citizens. 

I grew up in the Mississippi Delta, and much of my family still resides there. Many of them are Trump supporters, or at least staunch Republicans. (And I’m the relative that works for “that liberal paper.”) I know this has to do with generational beliefs passed on through the years and from a perspective that may not be the most informed; perhaps just differently informed. Some people aren’t as open to new ideas as others. Some blindly follow. Some believe what they believe and that’s that. And while we may not agree on many things, and the complicated “why” behind their reasoning for backing certain stances may not make sense to me, I will not be “deleting” them. Should I confess this in the Flyer, a progressive publication? Perhaps not. But I hope you all will try to understand my “why.” 

Throughout the past few months, as campaigning reached its peak, I’ve seen more hate spewed — from both sides — than usual. Social media especially can already be a dark and winding environment for those with passionate convictions or high anxiety. It’s easy to get angry, scared, or sad, scrolling through all the muck and misinformation. It’s even easier to argue with those who disagree with your views, to put them down for not sharing your beliefs. It’s often an irrational and brash place. 

I’ve seen this hate coming from people who I know are not hateful at their core — good people who give to charity and volunteer, who rescue animals and deeply care for others, even outside of their families. From empathetic people who push for acceptance and inclusion, for human rights and democracy, but viciously bash those who don’t see things their way. Is hate the appropriate response? Is banishment? I may stand slack-jawed at some of what I’m seeing shared on my social feeds from family, friends, and acquaintances, but my reaction is more one of confusion and compassion. (I’ll admit, though, I’ve made use of Facebook’s “snooze” feature during election season to quiet some of the chaos.) 

We’re all flesh and bone. We all share the ability to feel emotions. And we each have ideals, aspirations, and experiences unique to us. I assume, too, we’ll all be waiting with bated breath as election results slowly roll in.

Whatever news we go to bed to tonight, or wake up to tomorrow, I expect the outcome to be both gray and bright — as life often is. We don’t yet know what the future holds — we never do. Whatever the result, though, we can always ensure we’re doing all we can to keep shining light in the dark and through the clouds, to advocate and educate, to further freedom — to bring together, not divide.

I’ll leave you with this line from poet Mary Oliver, a mantra we all can call to when things feel overwhelming or grim: “It is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in the broken world.” 

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Seeing Ghosts

Photo: Evgeniya Mokeeva | Dreamstime.com

The Memphis Flyer folks love Halloween — and all things spooky. Our very own Toby Sells has even written a book — Haint Blues: Strange Tales from the American South — for which he used his sharp reporter’s skills to get to the heart of some of the South’s best paranormal stories. With just a mention of ghosts, our managing editor Abigail’s eyes light up. So when we discussed what we wanted to do for this issue, all sorts of ghoulish ideas flew. Did we want to recount regional ghost tales (of which there are many)? Could we schedule a ghost tour (several operate in the area)? Was there a haunted house nearby where we could spend a night (and have our timbers shivered)? 

Although these conversations spanned over a few weeks before our favorite holiday, we weren’t quite able to get our butts in gear for a full-fledged ghost outing on the streets of Memphis or in a spooky B&B. The next best thing, of course, was a professionally guided hunt for ghosts in the famously haunted Earnestine & Hazel’s. Sadly I missed the excursion for a concert I’d already bought tickets to, but thankfully a few eager Flyer staffers were available for the experience. You can read all about it in this week’s cover story, “Ghost Fishing.” 

While this week we relish in the ghastly fun, some not-so-fun horrors may be impending. Of course, I’m referring to the election as we count the days until the country’s new leader is revealed. Next week as results slowly pour in, our staff will be up past our bedtimes Tuesday night awaiting that answer. And as our regular readers well know, the Flyer always hits newsstands on Wednesday mornings. That will not be the case for the coming edition. Our printer has given us an extension on our deadline so that we can wait until the absolute last minute to call it. Whether that will be a clear winner or “too close to call,” we’re hanging on as long as they’ll let us before hitting “send” on the cover image and cover story. With a late ship, the papers will be printed later — which means our delivery will also be later. In this case, copies of the November 7th issue won’t make their way to newsstands until Thursday morning, November 7th. So heads up: If you don’t see us in your regular pick-up spot on Wednesday, please check back Thursday for a hard copy (the individual features will be published on our website as usual early Wednesday morning). 

We’ll be on the edge of our seats with the rest of the nation (world?) next week, trying to keep the nail biting to a minimum as our fate unfolds. The ghosts of a previous term under Trump floating in the back of our minds are as haunting as anything we’ve seen — and those ghosts are very real. I urge you all to get out and cast your votes, so that this particular horror story might have a happier ending. 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Rock on, Tomcatt

Muck Sticky with Tom and wife Maggie (Photo: Courtesy Maggie Conway)

Some of you may recall from my first official editor’s letter a couple years ago, or from our “meet the team” ads with staff headshots and bios, that I name-dropped the place where I spotted a Memphis Flyer for the first time. A Desoto County (Mississippi) resident, I was still a student, with a passion for writing and sights set on a journalism degree. My other passion was music — not playing it (too impatient), but listening and dissecting. (My original goal was to write for Rolling Stone magazine — two birds and all.) The only things I really knew of Memphis then were Libertyland (Mid-South Fair nights were the best) and the numerous thrift shops along parts of Airways and Getwell (the only routes I’d take to cross the state line because the interstate was especially scary for a young Shara). 

Back then, in the early 2000s, there was a little music shop — Disc-O-Tech — in Southaven, a few blocks away from my job at a local dry cleaners. Many days, before or after my shift, I’d stop in to browse new releases or dig for used copies of albums I hadn’t yet acquired. My tastes were all over the place those days, often influenced by friends, MTV, or the radio. And I loved to explore songs with the windows down and car speakers at full blast. So that little shop was a regular destination in my weekly routine. Over a few years, I filled many CD booklets with classic and obscure tunes, thanks almost solely to that store. 

It helped that the proprietor Tom “Tomcatt” Stephens was cool as a cucumber and always greeted me with a smile. We’d come to know each other, as regulars and shop owners do. During those visits, Tomcatt would tell me about new inventory, ask about my current musical interests and if I had recommendations for albums to order. The fact that a Flyer rack sat at the entrance was then a mere bonus to my music trips. But soon it became habit for me to stop by even if I didn’t have enough money left from my measly paycheck to buy anything. Each Wednesday, like clockwork, I’d pop in to grab the new issue, excited to read my horoscope and the music coverage, to browse the many events happening in “the big city.” And, of course, to chat with Tom for a few. He knew a lot about music, and I was eager to know more. He’d ask me about school, and I’d keep him apprised. We became Facebook friends, and even though I paid fewer and fewer visits to Disc-O-Tech as college took over and I eventually moved to Memphis, we kept in touch. Tom was so proud of me when I announced I’d landed an internship with the Flyer. And later, when I wrote for Memphis Magazine. And especially when I became Flyer editor. The last time I went by, we talked and talked, catching up on life stuff. I left with some ’90s movie soundtracks and an armload of used DVDs. My sister had gone with me. He posted on my Facebook page a day or two later how nice it was to see me and meet Shelly. Nearly 20 years after we first crossed paths, just as genuine and pleasant as ever.

I’m sharing this now because Tomcatt passed away in late July. My heart sank as it would with the loss of a close friend — because Tom, his presence, and that store were a huge part of my life. All the music I found through him shaped the person I am today. As did the copies of the Flyer I picked up there. Thankfully, as they say, the show will go on at Disc-O-Tech, with new owners and a new name. Be sure to visit them at 1650 Mississippi Valley Blvd. in Southaven after the November 1st reopening to help carry on Tom’s legacy and love of music. Rock on, Tomcatt!

“Tom ‘Tomcatt’ Stephens loved entering sweepstakes contests, scavenging estate sales, streaming ‘eagle cams,’ driving his Miata on winding roads, enjoying his favorite Silver Queen corn with “maters,” and watching an odd variety of television shows, but music of all genres was his true passion and legacy to our community. A Celebration of Everlasting Life to honor Tomcatt’s memory will be held on Sunday, October 27th, from 2 to 6 p.m. at Memphis Brooks Museum of Art. A brief service at 2:15 p.m. will kick off the commemorative festivities.” 

Shara Clark
shara@memphisflyer.com 

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Imagining Intelligence

That’s not even a tater tot. (Photo: Facebook | Meta AI)

“Imagine a tater tot ice skating.” 

“Oops! I can’t generate that image. Can I help you imagine something else?”

“Imagine a tater tot on ice skates.”

“Oops! I can’t generate that image. Can I help you imagine something else?”

“Imagine a tater tot.” 

“Oops! I can’t generate that image. Can I help you imagine something else?”

“Imagine a cylindrical fried potato on ice skates.” 

The above is a “conversation” I had with Meta AI after several prompts appeared in my Facebook feed encouraging me to “Ask Meta AI to imagine anything.” Examples given included “imagine a clown in Paris,” “imagine an alien wedding,” “imagine running on Mars.” Whatever you choose to “imagine,” the AI feature will produce an image for you. Or not. But I had to give it a try. In thinking of something random and absurd (and while likely craving potatoes, which, if I’m honest, is often), I asked it to imagine a tater tot on ice skates. Psh! Turns out the thing doesn’t even know what a tater tot is. Intelligence, shmintelligence! Big dummy! I got a chuckle when it finally dreamed up my more specific request (result shown here) — spiralized fried potatoes atop the cutest little pair of skates. You’d almost think it’s real! Or not …

One majorly unfortunate issue with AI images, audio, and video is that there are a whole lot of folks out there who can’t tell it’s AI. In the last couple of weeks as hurricane coverage took over our social media feeds, loads of AI images appeared — of Donald Trump in jeans, waist-deep in floodwater; of crying children clutching their dogs in heavy rain. On one thread below a post of the former, commenters were split. The image was real, some demanded. “Bless him. He was there doing all he could to help.” Others agreed that, yes, maybe the image wasn’t authentic — completely “imagined” by AI, to be exact — but regardless, they said, “The sentiment is real.” The sentiment is real. Since when does sentiment equal reality? Some have bigger imaginations than others. 

Speaking of meta, I also asked the image generator to “imagine artificial intelligence imagining artificial intelligence.” The result was a shiny robot — a hodgepodge of metal plates in the shape of a human, with some exposed wiring and small lights glowing from within its head — hands rested on a keyboard, intently studying a computer screen with indecipherable lettering. Imagine you imagining yourself. Woah, things are getting heavy! 

Jokes aside, things are getting heavy. As we near the election, misinformation abounds, much of it generated with AI and spreading like wildfire online. Users are even making video clips of what appear to be Biden and Kamala saying things they’ve never said, or images of political figures “imagined” to be standing arm and arm with U.S. adversaries. And an astounding selection of American voters believe, apparently, everything they see. I wish I had that kind of imagination! 

Another recent example of rabid imagination fueled by AI, shared by a Facebook friend, was a video of “robots doing field work.” “So what do we do with human[s]? Wow!” he captioned his share of what was absolutely in no way real — cartoony even — showing one Short Circuit-looking robot, scythe in hand, gathering bundles of hay and another shoddily “imagined” robot holding onto a bull’s tail and standing (dancing?) on top of some sort of seeder or tiller pulled behind it. The whole thing looked straight out of a poorly programmed video game. But alas: “Scary. We will lose jobs,” one commenter noted. “Sad day,” another lamented. 

It is, in fact, a sad day when a percentage of the population cannot tell the difference between what’s real and what’s fake. Maybe robots will take our jobs. Maybe somewhere deep in his twisted heart, Trump imagined himself wading through waters and rubble helping hurricane victims. The sentiment is real, they say. Who cares if what we base our opinions on is complete and utter nonsense? 

I, for one, would like to imagine that people aren’t so gullible. That they’re capable of discerning truth from blatant lies. That somewhere out there, actual human intelligence still exists. One thing I know for sure, though, is that tater tots are real. Meta AI cannot convince me otherwise. I think I’ll go have some. Imagine that! 

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

An Extraordinary Machine

A bit of nature (Photo: Shara Clark)

It’s been a minute since I’ve written in this space, dear readers. Time both drags and zips by, and I hope you’ve all been well in the interim. For anyone who has followed my columns since April when I broke my foot, I’m excited to report that I’m walking again — without training wheels, so to speak. I ditched the orthopedic boot a month or so ago. I battled with and lost to the ankle brace — it was uncomfortable and none of my shoes fit over it, so it was sent to early retirement. The wheelchair and walkers have been locked in the vaults of my mind, a memory I hope to never revisit (except when I return those items to their rightful owners — thanks for the borrow, y’all!). I’ve finished week four of physical therapy, and I’m able to walk — in supportive shoes — with minimal pain. 

I say minimal. It still hurts, but compared to what I’ve endured since spring, this stage is a walk in the park. There’s nerve damage — a constant dull burn and numbness. My foot still swells if I’m up and about, even around the house, for more than a few minutes. And there are ligaments that feel like tight rubber bands pulling toward a snap with each step. I can’t seem to walk down a set of stairs — my foot doesn’t want to work that way — but I can walk up them. 

I was thinking about a form I filled out at my last physical therapy appointment. It asked to rate things like putting on socks and shoes or walking a mile on a 1 to 5 scale of difficulty. I answered “little difficulty” or “no difficulty” on a few items, which, in hindsight, I still have quite a bit of difficulty doing. But as I gave each task a score, I was mentally comparing them to how I felt two or three months ago. The fact that I can even do these things feels like a miracle now. (Still no hopping, jogging, or running, which all received a side-scribbled “N/A” on the scale.)

Another miracle is that I’ve gotten back to my almost-daily ritual neighborhood walks. Those sacred meditations in motion where I can see the seasons change in the leaves, admire the sunlight shimmering across puddles, feel the cooler breeze against my skin. It seems I missed all of summer stuck inside mostly immobile, and my body knows it. My muscles have had to put in extra work just to be upright — my back, shins, and calves aching from a measly mile walk. But I’m gradually adding more distance, more time with shoes to pavement, taking care not to overdo it. 

On a recent stroll, crisp leaves scattered the sidewalk in little cyclones, and the wind bent branches on decades-old trees towering overhead. I stopped, as I always have, to photograph flowers and butterflies and sprouts peeking through cement cracks. I spoke to my favorite old neighborhood dog, who, although she acknowledged me with a side-eye from her lounging spot in the yard, was too cozy in a sunning session to be bothered to rise and greet me. My lungs were full of fresh air and my soul filled with gratitude. For a while I walked with one earbud in listening to quiet tunes, but then there was a louder sound. Not the whir of speeding cars on the nearby thoroughfare or the chatter of neighbors conversing on their front lawn. It was a pulsing in my ear — my heartbeat. I paused the music and listened to my body’s life force, felt the drumming in unison with my steps. Reminding me that the past — that held so much pain — is gone. That my body — this extraordinary machine — is mending as it should. That this aching — this firing of blood and muscles — is necessary to fully heal. That my internal drum — pounding as I march ahead — forges on. As the last long sighs of summer give breath to fall, this path — right now (right now, right now) — is exactly where I’m supposed to be. 

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Staycation Daydreams 

Lilies bloom (Photo: Shara Clark)

Welcome to our annual Staycation issue! This year our team chose to revisit (or visit for the first time) some Memphis mainstays — the Peabody, Stax, Beale, and more — places that consistently draw tourists, and, to some degree, mark (to outsiders, at least) the major beats of our city’s pulse. In years past, we’ve highlighted lesser-known locales to encourage deeper exploration of what makes the Bluff City tick. This edition, though, serves as a reminder of just a few of the landmarks that can’t be missed — even if you drive by them every day on your work commute without a second thought — if for no other reason than to knock them off your Memphis bucket list. Maybe this is the summer to leave the “I’ve never been to Graceland” choir and join the “I’ve been there — I loved it!” crew. (I have been to Graceland once, thank you very much.)

Although my healing bones aren’t quite ready to go on any museum tours or Downtown jaunts, I’ve had a lot of daydreams about future excursions. After three months of limited mobility — wheelchairs and walkers and orthopedic boots — I’ve never looked more forward to venturing out beyond the doctor’s office or grocery store. Scanning the Flyer’s weekly calendar of upcoming events, there’s always a handful of things that catch my eye. Speaking of which, while some weeks — such as this one — our calendar is cut short due to available print space, there is always an extensive list of local happenings on our website. Check our calendar page or bookmark events.memphisflyer.com and plan your next adventure!  

Halladay visits. (Photo: Shara Clark)

The first thing on my “once I can walk again” to-do list is just that — walking. I so miss my beloved neighborhood walks, even this time of year. Hot or not, I love admiring the saturated summer colors, the well-kept flower beds, the squirrels busy doing squirrel things. The sun beating down, forcing sweat from my brow and body. It just feels good (but damn the humidity!) — alive with heat and light and movement. Bonus points if I’m able to cool off in a neighbors’ sprinkler on my path. In the meantime, I’m staycationing, literally, at home. But I’ve made some new backyard friends to keep me company. Thanks to my boyfriend Chris, who picked up a giant bag of birdseed a few weeks back on a whim, I now have daily visitors: blue jays, cardinals, robins, finches, doves, the occasional hummingbird, and a curious crow we’re trying to attract that hasn’t done more than circle overhead thus far. The birds are familiar with his morning routine now — first a scoop of seed, then a fist full of peanuts in the shell. The blue jays come out en masse to beat the squirrels to the nuts. The smaller birds swoop in throughout the day to peck at the feed or soak under the spinning sprinkler (cut on just for the wildlife), sometimes offering a low flyover or a long, cocked-head look and a song from the power line above, what we take as a “thank you.” I watch from my little side-yard stoop as (the regulars have been given names) Roberto, Gibson, Rudy, Halladay, and friends make their rounds, cawing and flapping at one another or patiently taking turns at the food pile. 

Oh, and my lilies have bloomed! They shot up, thick-stalked and tall, within the last few days. The lush pink blossoms are always a welcomed return. Originally uprooted from my previous home and replanted here, they come back every year, somehow each time more beautiful, hardy and requiring no work on my part. Like those lilies in the offseason, I lie dormant for now, but will burst forth soon, stronger and more resilient. Bending toward the light and looking forward to experiencing all the city has to offer once more.

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Baby Steps

Baby steps first (Photo: Youjnii | Dreamstime.com)

I’m learning to walk again. It was odd at first. After more than two months of being unable to bear weight on my left foot after an April 13th fall, broken bones, and three subsequent surgeries, my brain had begun to rewire itself not to, under any circumstance, step on that foot — or else. Or else, what? I wasn’t sure of the medical specifics, other than it would undoubtedly hurt and it could hinder the healing. Incredibly cautious and afraid of the consequences, I have exercised great care in this endeavor and have become increasingly skilled at hopping on one foot while using a walker and balancing on the good foot while standing. Not skills I’d ever thought I’d master, but hey, my right leg is a lot stronger now. And I can challenge anyone to a standing-on-one-foot timed battle. Who’s up for it?

Since I was given the green light from the surgeon to bear weight — still with caution, and in an orthopedic boot — I’ve had to relearn, in a way, how to walk. At first, I was scared. Is my ankle going to collapse when I stand? Will the titanium plate snap out of place? Are fragments of my healing tibia and fibula going to crumble again beneath the weight of my body? And beyond that, it just felt downright weird to put that foot on the ground — tingly, as if it had just awoken from a monthslong slumber, burning a bit as the nerves reignited to do the job they’ve done for decades. Just like riding a bike, I suppose, but accompanied by some strange lighting strikes of pain and a brain that didn’t want to cooperate. 

Last week, it started slowly, a step here and there as I remembered how to put one foot in front of the other, how to balance on two legs, expecting it to hurt. And it has. After the first full day of “walking” — some with a walker and some without, still in the boot and a little off-kilter — it felt like I’d traversed the expanse of Disney World, stood in long lines, and suffered the sorest feet (or foot) I’d ever felt. But the most I’d done was walk from the parking lot into the movie theater for a showing of Inside Out 2. (It was a great movie, by the way. I might have enjoyed it more than my niece and nephew. Among others, the part about losing joy as we grow up got me right in the feels.)

In this experience of learning to walk again, finding balance, and rewiring my brain to physically move forward once more, I’m struck with the notion that this applies to other parts of my life. Much has changed for me in the past year — in nearly equal parts good and bad — and even more in the last few months. In more than the literal sense, I’m learning to walk again — in the same environment with new characters, new challenges, new feelings I have to feel my way through. Sometimes it’s like looking at a dusty old box of pictures and letters with yellowing pages, so crisp as you pull at the folds. There’s not a lot of room for looking back though — wallowing in the holes left by a sister that’s moved far away, a dog that’s died, friendships that have grown apart. It stings and burns and pulls at the heart strings in a way that’s not conducive to the forward momentum needed to inspire those steps toward the future. And a voice inside quietly says, “Don’t look at them. It’s going to hurt.”

If you can rely on nothing else, you can on this: Change is a constant. We may want to cry and holler and resist when it comes, but it’s inevitable. In embracing mine, and in relearning to walk — literally and figuratively — I’ll try to muster the joy and gleeful vigor that’s seen in a baby taking its first steps. The whole world is new from an upright position, waddling unbalanced to and fro, tripping and falling down now and then. Both feet on the ground, wide eyes and a toothy grin, and so much — a lifetime — to look forward to. 

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Letter From The Editor Opinion

Broken Bones and Silver Linings

Photo: Allison Thrasher | Dreamstime.com

It didn’t behave
like anything you had
ever imagined. The wind
tore at the trees, the rain
fell for days slant and hard.
The back of the hand
to everything. I watched
the trees bow and their leaves fall
and crawl back into the earth.
As though, that was that.
This was one hurricane
I lived through, the other one
was of a different sort, and
lasted longer. Then
I felt my own leaves giving up and
falling. The back of the hand to
everything. But listen now to what happened
to the actual trees;
toward the end of that summer they
pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.
It was the wrong season, yes,
but they couldn’t stop. They
looked like telephone poles and didn’t
care. And after the leaves came
blossoms. For some things
there are no wrong seasons.
Which is what I dream of for me.
— Mary Oliver, “Hurricane”

This summer won’t be shaping up to much for me. Still recovering from an April fall and subsequent broken bones, I’m aching and restless — and won’t be able to walk with both feet again for another month or more. I’ve learned to navigate the house in a rolling walker/chair — although my poor door frames have suffered. Any outings (once or twice a week for doctor appointments and/or my sanity) involve the use of a wheelchair, and people stare with the awkward, “Poor thing,” or the impatient, “Could you hurry up and get out of my way?” For the most part, recovery reminds me of the Covid lockdowns, stuck in my home for my safety — proper healing doesn’t happen standing up with such an injury. It’s given me an intimate look at life with a physical disability — the frustration of not being able to do certain tasks on your own, feeling helpless, trapped in your body with its limitations.

My 34-year-old brother KC has lived his life in a wheelchair, at the mercy of cerebral palsy — unable to do much for himself aside from grasping finger foods or a drink straw from his lap tray and pulling them to his mouth. Of course, I’ve thought about this through the years — when he asks what I’ve been up to, where I’ve gone, what I ate, who I saw. He’s always been deeply inquisitive and incredibly positive, but there’s always a strange guilt behind my answers knowing he’s not able to get up and experience the world in the ways that I can. Bound since birth to that life.

For the past 45 days, I’ve had a mere glimpse into it. And rain has fallen for me, blinding at times — my mind frantic and full with all the things I cannot do. Wasting away in bed — my leg elevated, required rest — waiting, waiting, waiting. A backhand to life as I knew it, knocked down by my own sort of hurricane. Fortunately, time will make me whole again, I remind myself. Not unlike the trees’ rebirth after violent storms tear away their leaves and limbs — my own stubbed limb, my miraculous body which knows what to do, slowly mends. Toward the end of the summer, I, too, will blossom again — my cheeks wet with silver linings and dreams.

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

(Don’t) Break a Leg

I can’t even think about my bones. I’m not sure why, but envisioning the inside of my body — nerves, muscles, veins, and organs — gives me the ick. I’m the type to faint while a nurse gathers blood for a routine lab test. And I’ve learned my veins are small and hard to find, so even the pushing and prodding of my flesh as they attempt to plump up a good one to poke makes me woozy. Once I was watching a TV show where a character had undergone breast augmentation surgery and described the feeling as having salt rocks in her chest, and I went pale and tingly and had to splash cold water on my face and lie down on the bathroom floor. Until recently, although I’m probably the clumsiest person I know, I’d prided myself on never having broken a bone. All my structural pieces were intact and in working order, aside from some likely weak tendons from many ankle sprains through the years — most recently a gnarly sprain to the left ankle last May (and another the previous December). Walking is harder than one might think.

Today, there are seven prescription bottles on my nightstand, and I am writing this from bed with my left foot iced and elevated on a pile of pillows. Some of you may have noticed I’ve been absent from this space for a few weeks — and a shiny new table of contents with accompanying photos teasing the week’s feature stories took the place of my editorial. We already had plans to occasionally run an illustrated table of contents in lieu of an editor’s note on those pesky weeks when words escaped me, but wound up launching it unannounced. I was down for nearly a week in early April with a flu-like illness, and in my feverish haze was unable to conjure up a column. So the first of the designed table of contents pages was set forth into the world. When I started feeling better, I decided to get dressed and go visit a friend. I’d been cooped up for days, swapping out one pair of pajamas for another, and at that point needed desperately to speak to another human in person before turning into a goblin. I put on some makeup and real pants and my favorite clunky platform Doc Martens (middle-school Shara would think today Shara was so cool with those boots) and left the house — free at last!

As I mentioned above, walking is harder than one might think, especially for a person who is prone to rolling their ankle, and even more especially when that person is wearing heavy platform boots. All I know is I was walking down the sidewalk one second, and the next I was on the ground in pain. When I managed to get that super-cool boot off, my ankle shifted unnaturally and sort of dangled at the end of my leg like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. Needless to say, a trip to the emergency room was in order, and what followed was as close to me living my actual nightmares as I’ve yet to get in this life. (I had to think about my bones!)

Medical staff sedated me and attempted to perform a manual “reduction” on the dislocated ankle. A funny aside, one of the medications they gave me before the procedure was propofol, which, a nurse informed me while I was still somewhat alert, was the drug that killed pop star Michael Jackson. After a dose of morphine that didn’t quite do the trick, I saw them coming toward me with another needle and asked, “Is that the Michael Jackson drug?” Then proceeded to sing, “got to be startin’ somethin’ …” as I drifted off to dreamland (I have no recollection of this). The reduction — basically several medical professionals roughly tugging at my foot — was unsuccessful, there was mention of risk of necrosis, and I was rushed to the OR for surgery. I awoke with metal pins in both sides of my heel and two in my shin. The contraption — a multiplanar external fixator, to be exact — holding everything together was bulky, heavy, and increasingly uncomfortable, and I laid up for several days in the hospital awaiting the second surgery, in which I had a titanium plate installed to hold my “blasted” fibula in place. (The surgeon said the mess I made by simply falling looked like a “high-impact” injury. I never half-ass anything.) There’s a pin in there somewhere holding things in place that will have to be removed in a few weeks. So, yeah, a broken fibula and tibia, a dislocated ankle, 30 staples, bionic parts, and seven nights and eight days in the hospital. (I’ll spare you the gruesome photo of my mangled Frankenstein leg.) The past couple of weeks since surgery have been both physically and mentally taxing, as I consider myself an incredibly independent (and stubborn) person — laying around unable to do things on my own is a pain unlike any other. Well, aside from that hospital bill.

Anyhow, that’s where I’ve been. I’ll be recovering for several more weeks at least but now I’m on the other side of the worst of this ordeal (and mostly out of the pain-killer coma). See you here again soon. In the meantime, don’t break a leg!

Categories
Letter From The Editor Opinion

Experiencing Totality

A view of the 2017 solar eclipse (Photo: Ziggy Mack)

Editor’s note: Other writers may occasionally share this space.
This piece was originally published in the Flyer in August 2017.

You can’t prepare for magnificence — not really. Months ago, I blocked off August 21st on my Outlook calendar — “TOTAL SOLAR ECLIPSE” — knowing that Something Was Going to Happen, and that I needed to put myself in its path.

I remember as a child spinning a globe, lightly tracing the sphere with a fingertip as it slowed, hoping to rest on a city with an entrancing name where I might one day travel. My strategy for picking an eclipse-viewing location was not terrifically more sophisticated. I looked at the path of totality on a map and picked the town within a day’s drive with the most entrancing name: Cadiz, near the southwest corner of Kentucky.

In search of a singular experience, I didn’t want to be in a crush of people, a crowd of awestruck gaspers all wearing our cardboard ISO-certified glasses. And the name — Cadiz, after the ancient Andalusian city in Spain — resonated in my mind, sufficient mysticism right there in Kentucky, 196 miles from my front door.

My eclipse companion and I never made it to Cadiz. We didn’t need to. Close to our planned destination, we crossed a long, gracefully arching bridge over the “lake” part of Land Between the Lakes, and we knew: this bridge, this height, this dark water beneath glinting silver and deep.

We parked in a parched, rutted field flanking the bridge, walked past the makeshift tent city occupied by hundreds of people and onto the bridge itself, which, to our surprise, wasn’t crowded — barely a couple of dozen people across the length of the span. Traffic thinned as the moments of totality approached. From our perch, we could see boats below drop anchor, waiting; the birds above, which I had read might fly into full-throated frenzy, were silent.

The light shifted, dimmed, slanted eerily sideways. And then: All light was evacuated. There was no noise from traffic, and little from other watchers. The temperature plummeted by what felt like 20 degrees — the difference between day and night. The wind died; the sky became ink-black. At the moment of totality, it’s safe to remove the special solar-eclipse glasses, so I did, and saw the entire bright body of the sun obscured by the interjecting moon. Solar flares escaped from the sides of the interlocking spheres, bursts of bright energy flashing in a wild halo.

It’s hard to know what to do in those two minutes: try to capture the event with a photo? A video? Leap up in sheer confused wonder? Laugh, overcome by the strangeness of it all, the overpowering perspective shift? Stare and stare and stare some more, trying to imprint the darkness, the coolness, the sun’s energy unfurling frilled fiery ribbons from behind the moon — as if there were any chance in the world you might forget this moment? I seem to recall doing all of these. A kind of eternity opened within those two minutes.

It’s hard to know what to do after those two minutes, too. The sun began to escape its temporary obscurity, and brightness returned to the early afternoon. Everyone looked a little dazed, like people staggering from the doors of a cosmic cinema back into summer afternoon.

There are certain things we think we know for certain, like: what is day, and what is night? Totality spun my certainty around like a globe, and when the sun returned, I found myself slightly but indelibly shifted.