Saturday in the Car with Dad

My musical education started at a young age during Saturday morning errand-running with my dad. We had a midnight blue Lincoln Town Car, circa 1980, with a landau top, making the car into a faux convertible. The equally blue leather bench seats were unbelievably wide to my four-year-old eyes and were so hot that they seared my little legs in the summertime. I had quite the attachment to that car. The shining chrome that ran all around it and the sheer size of the thing made me feel like I was riding in a limo. The backseat, to which I was relegated on trips to Omaha and other seemingly far off places, had an armrest that pulled out of the back of the seat. I’d often hide things in there, looking forward to “finding” them again the next time I was back there. The pocket on the back of the passenger seat was also a hiding place for my toys and other miscellaneous things. I especially loved to sit in the open trunk. Just like any other kid, I sought out places that were just the right size for me and the trunk was one of those places. The one thing that kept me continually entertained, however, was the radio. As we drove to our first destination, I’d play with the dials, tuning in to our favorite station and we’d drive on, bopping along to the oldies. One of my favorites was Roy Orbison’s “Oh, Pretty Woman.”



My dad would wake me up early on Saturday with a cheery “buenos dias,” one of the few bits of Spanish we shared as if it was a secret language. While I was getting dressed, he’d make me an “orange juice sunrise” (something I thought was extraordinarily unique until years later when I realized that “grown-ups” usually added tequila). Once I drank it down, we’d be off. On the way to our first stop, we’d invariably hear one of our favorite songs: “Great Balls of Fire” by Jerry Lee Lewis. Pretty soon we’d be pulling up at the recycling center where we took our pop cans. I loved the metallic sound of the cans clinking against each other in their plastic garbage bags. The recycling center was exciting and different, the smell of stale beer and the gently sticky cement floor were a novelty. My dad would dump the cans into a metal basket that was bigger than me in order to be weighed before going into the compactor. I was allowed to keep the change we received from the cans—never more than two dollars, often just a small assortment of quarters, dimes and nickels. The men at the center were always very nice, bringing a small wicker basket full of suckers down from shelf so I could pick one. I’d unwrap my sucker and look around while my dad talked about the Huskers with the guys for a few minutes. Soon, we were on our way to the next stop.



On our way to continue the errands, we’d turn the radio back up. This time Elvis’ “Jailhouse Rock” came on. I’d bounce around in my seat, trying to sing along, but failing miserably because I couldn’t really decipher the lyrics. That was half the fun, really. We’d swing by Russ’s Market to pick up some pecan rolls, my favorite treat that I only got on those mornings. I’d pull apart the roll, saving the inside for last and then feel around in the bottom of the white paper bag for any pecans I’d missed. Once I’d eaten my breakfast, I was left with sugary, sticky fingers and a happy smile. Of course, pecan rolls weren’t a constant—sometimes we’d pick up doughnuts. They were never the big glazed ones, though. I always insisted upon cake doughnuts, either cinnamon and sugar or iced with sprinkles. Just like I’d look for missing pecans, I’d also root around for any sprinkles that had fallen off. The sprinkles were easily the best part of the doughnut. Then again, licking the sticky, sugary goodness off of my fingers was also pretty great.



Our next stop on those Saturdays was the Farmer’s Market. Held downtown in the Haymarket, it was somewhat of an adventure trying to find parking. Since the streets were blocked off, there was never anywhere to park within about three blocks, unless you got really lucky. Most times, we’d park under the viaduct and hope that the plethora of pigeons didn’t poop on the car too much. The Farmer’s Market was another place that always seemed exotic and exciting. The fruits and vegetables made for colorful displays and there was always some sort of entertainment. While the food was definitely fascinating, my favorite part was the variety of arts and crafts booths. I’d walk with my dad, hand in hand, looking at the booths, occasionally stopping to examine the wares. There was one selling polished stones, another had wind catchers and stained glass. Still others sold original works of art or garden statues made out of tool parts. After several weeks of looking at these statues, we bought one, a large colorful bird with rebar legs and rake spokes for a tail. If we hadn’t already gotten our pecan rolls, we’d pick up a couple of extra-large ones from the woman selling baked goods in front of the Empyrean Ales brewing facilities. After a while, my legs would get tired of navigating the cobblestone roads and we’d move on. Back in the car, I’d turn on the radio, my spirits revived by the cocky strumming of the Everly Brothers’ “Bye Bye Love.”



While we were downtown, we’d swing by the University of Nebraska Federal Credit Union at 17th and Q streets. My dad would pull the big car into the small parking lot and we’d climb the four steps to enter the lobby. The smell of paper money permeated the building, giving the whole place a crisp, fresh scent. Waiting in line gave me time to check out my surroundings. I especially liked hopping along the variously colored polished granite tiles. My active imagination made up new routes every time we were there. Once a window opened up, we’d advance to the teller, my head just high enough to see over the ledge and I’d pass my recycling earnings to the woman. Oddly enough, I don’t remember any men working as tellers. I didn’t exactly understand the importance of putting my money into a savings account, but my dad said I should, so I did. A few years later, when we started taking trips together as a family, I’d proudly exchange my cash for American Express traveler’s cheques. The colors on the cheques made them more appealing than regular old bills and made me feel very adult when I paid for something with them. They came in larger denominations than I’d ever held before—a twenty dollar traveler cheque was my ticket into the grown-up world of real commerce. After my very small transaction, we’d head back to the car and move on. This time Buddy Holly’s “Peggy Sue” filled the car with his signature hiccup.



The short drive to Nebraska Bookstore, the University of Nebraska bookstore, was executed to the end of “Peggy Sue” and the beginning of “Chantilly Lace” by the Big Bopper. The minute I’d hear the opening “hellllloooooo baby” I’d insist upon hearing the song out. If the song wasn’t over by the time we’d parked, we would sit with the battery on until the song ended. Afterward, we hopped out of the car and walked back to Nebraska Book. The large building seemed truly gargantuan to me, filled with the smell of paper, and I was constantly interested in the bumpy gray rubber flooring. My dad would deposit me in the “gifts” area while he went to look at other things. This section was filled with stuffed animals, charm bracelets, plastic dinosaur sets, gag license plates and other odd, but fascinating, items. There were also shelves of children’s book. From a very young age I loved to read, so shelves of books that seemed to be just for me was wonderful. I’d pull some down and sit on the floor, reading about trees and fossils, anything I could get my hands on. Evidently I was well-behaved enough for him to trust me alone. If I was done reading before my dad came back to find me, I’d invariably wander over to read greeting cards. I didn’t understand many of them, but I liked reading them anyway. Once my dad was ready to go, we might walk around campus a little bit before heading back to the car again.



At this point in the day, we usually had a couple of things left to do. One was to stop by Earl May and pick up bulbs and seeds for my mother’s garden. The other was to peruse the garage sales. Living close to Sheridan Boulevard usually afforded us with plenty of opportunities to check out the rich folks’ leftover possessions. Knowing we had plenty of time to peruse other people's trash (but perhaps our treasure), we went to Earl May first. Grass seed was almost always on the list for spring planting, but we often picked up tulip bulbs, impatiens, marigolds, petunias and, my favorite, snapdragons. Walking into the store was like walking into a fairy garden. The overwhelming smell was of grass seed and soil, a heady mixture. I’d walk around the store and look at the garden decorations, the fountains and lawn furniture. There were two parts of the store that drew my attention equally, though: the pets and the greenhouse. I loved the greenhouse because of all the flowers. The atmosphere was humid and full of floral aromas. I liked to walk around the aisles looking for fallen blossoms on the damp cement floor. I also liked the animals, mostly because I knew I’d never have any of them. The fish were deadly dull, but the birds and chinchillas were two of my favorites. Nearly every time I’d ask my dad if we could get a parrot. Predictably, the answer was always a heartbreaking “no.” Back in the car even the raucous sounds of Little Richard and “Long Tall Sally” couldn’t cheer me up.



Soon enough, I was back to my happy self because we were pulling up to a garage sale. Garage sales were great because I was more likely to convince my dad that I needed some random toy or article of clothing. One of the best buys we ever made at a garage sale was the Pass the Pigs game. Even when I was young, I was intrigued by the peculiar sensation of sifting through someone’s life. Each item on a table or rack had once held meaning for someone, if only briefly. I was never fully comfortable with the idea that someone might look over my baby crib or stuffed animals in the same manner someday. However, that didn’t stop me from accumulating armloads of things I didn’t really need. My dad used garage sales as a way to help me with my math skills too, having me add up the purchases before we bought anything. He is brilliant at math, but was never condescending or mean when I got something wrong. We’d gather up our newly acquired things and pile back into the car for the last time, heading home, usually to do some yard work or plant the seeds we’d bought. The strains of Chuck Berry singing “Johnny B. Goode” carried us right up into the driveway. There was really nothing I loved better than spending Saturday mornings with my dad and this is the music that will always remind me of him.

Life Soundtrack Rough

My musical education started at a young age during Saturday morning errand-running with my dad. We had an old Lincoln Town Car, circa 1980, with a landau top and midnight blue leather seats that were unbelievably wide to my four-year-old eyes. My dad would wake me up early to do anything and everything that needed being done. One of my favorite errands was taking pop cans to be recycled. I love the metallic sound of the cans clinking against each other in their plastic bags. The recycling center was exciting and different, the smell of stale beer and the gently sticky cement floor were totally novel. My dad would dump the cans into a metal basket that was bigger than me in order to be weighed before going into the compactor. I was allowed to keep the change we received from the cans—never more than two dollars, often just a small assortment of quarters, dimes and nickels. On the way to the next place we had to go, my dad would turn on the radio or slip a tape into the tape deck. This was my first introduction to music that I remember and Tennessee Ernie Ford, Harry Belafonte and especially Roy Orbison;s classic "Oh Pretty Woman" bring back happy memories of those Saturdays spent with my dad. We’d often stop to get pecan rolls, leaving me with sugary, sticky fingers and a happy smile. There was nothing I loved better than those mornings spent with my father.



Until seventh grade, I had the unique distinction of growing up the daughter of a TV producer. Working for Nebraska Educational Telecommunications, my dad helped produce shows like Backyard Farmer and organizing the televised pledge drives and auctions that took place at the station to raise money for NETV. When I was about six I was often put in front of the camera to help with simple things like drawing the names of winners on national television. Wearing my baby blue dress with the white satin sash, I’m sure my main reason for being on camera was for the “cute factor”, but I didn’t know that then. It was just exhilarating to be under the hot stage lights and feel like I was doing something important. Due to this upbringing, I watched a lot of PBS shows and one of my absolute favorites was “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego” with the catchy theme song performed by Rockapella. It wasn’t until years later, when I was in high school, that I connected Rockapella to Carmen Sandiego. During those pledge drives I practically had the run of the studio as long as I wasn’t getting in the way. I spent hours exploring the cavernous storage areas where costumes, props and set pieces were kept. I learned how to manipulate the huge stationary cameras used to film television shows in the studios. I made forts under tables with yards of used audio tape serving as grass or bedding or anything I could imagine. And when my dad worked late I spent late nights napping on a couch in Studio 2, a smaller studio with a set of false stair built into the set and a bay window that looked out on fake potted plants and an ever-changing backdrop depicting a yard in various seasons.



One of the early passions in my life was dancing. I had fast growth spurts—often three inches at a time—so my mother enrolled me in tap and ballet classes to help my muscles keep up with my bones. So, from the time I was four until I was 17 I was at Karen McWilliams’ dance studio at least three days a week. When I was younger I was more interested in the sequined costumes and excessive makeup of the recital than the actual study of dance, but in a few years I’d learned to love the art form. In ballet there was a kind of control that was refreshing, even as it was elusive. Barre exercises were always a challenge because of the strict attention to every detail of your body. Posture, turnout, hand position, arm position, neck position…everything counted. During tap lessons you learned a precision that extended to your toes, but still had the opportunity to make plenty of noise. It was about this time that musicals really started to interest me. I loved nothing better than to pretend I was Debbie Reynolds tapping my heart out with Gene Kelly to "Good Mornin'" from Singin' in the Rain and being admired by one and all for my grace and talent. Once I had the opportunity to move to pointe shoes, I opted to save my feet from potential destruction and started taking lessons in Irish step dancing, which is a whole different form of dance. I love the speed and flamboyance of the feet while the upper half of the body maintained a paralytic stiffness, lending all the more emphasis to the incredible things happening on the floor.



My introduction to more contemporary music was long coming, delayed pretty thoroughly until my 8th grade year when I was shown the light of the Red Hot Chili Peppers by my friend Adam. He was a smart, talented guy who turned out to be one of my best friends for many years. He was a particularly good artist and would often draw nonsense designs on my planner. He sat in front of me in our chemistry class, which I remember consisting of a lot of down time in which we were allowed to do homework or talk. One day, he turned around and, while we were chatting, he wrote the lyrics to “Otherside” on a Saturday in my planner. He ended it with a centered asterisk, which I would later learn was the emblem for the Chili Peppers. His precise handwriting emphasized the poetry of the lyrics. And that was it for me. I was hooked on the Chili Peppers. Californication was one of the first albums I owned on CD (Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill was the first, something that felt like an act of rebellion at the time) and “Otherside” remains one of my favorite songs to this day, serving as a rather nostalgic reminder of a friend with whom I’ve lost contact.



One day in 5th grade it was announced that instrumental lessons were going to begin. Sheets were passed out with a list of instruments. We were to take these sheets home and discuss with our parents the instruments that we might be interested in learning, choosing three in case our first choice was already full. I don’t remember what all I put down, but evidently saxophone was one of them because from the first lesson on I loved the instrument. The sound (once I’d learned how to coax sound out of it) was soothing and something else I couldn’t quite define. I’d later realize that the “something else” was a sexiness that doesn’t come naturally to many instruments. One of the songs that I aspired to play was the “Pink Panther Theme”by the great Henry Mancini. I don’t know that I ever mastered or even attempted it, but I spent many, many hours practicing my sax. I wasn’t satisfied just playing in my room—the acoustics weren’t quite what I was looking for. To remedy that, I’d take my flimsy wire stand and a chair into my fully tiled bathroom, close the door and wail away. I’m sure my parents were less than thrilled by the late night one-person jam sessions, but they never said anything, preferring me to pursue something that I enjoyed. It was around this time that I also started taking piano lessons, which didn’t stick quite as well as the sax did. Today, though, I wish I’d kept up with my lessons in both instruments.




My high school career was fully defined by two things: academics and performing arts. I finished 9th grade at Irving Middle School after participation in varsity jazz band and Spirits, the upperclassmen swing choir. In the summer of 2002 I made my first trips to the newly opened Lincoln Southwest High School for a number of auditions and try outs. I’d been playing volleyball since fourth grade, so it was no great surprise when I tried out and got a spot on the reserve team. I never had a career-making skill in volleyball, but I was pretty good and really loved playing. I also auditioned for jazz band and show choir, spending the next three years in both varsity groups. Show choir competitions made up a lot of weekends for the last two years of high school and, hard as we tried, we never took home first place trophies. Omaha Westside’s Amazing Technicolor Show Choir, however, had a killer group and often swept the competitions. My senior year saw the beginning of an ongoing love affair with Michael Buble and, coincidentally, an excellent performance of “Feeling Good” by a soloist in Westside’s group. Even though I was bitter about losing the competition, I had to sit in awe of this skinny blond boy with the huge voice. It was weeks until I could stop talking about his performance with more than just a hint of jealousy. Even if it wasn’t my performance, it was a fitting end to a very satisfying run in LSW’s show choir.




After a wholly unsatisfying year on the volleyball team, I lost a lot of my love of the game. I decided not to try out the next year, instead opting to audition for the theatre productions. I’d always loved theatre, but had never been a part of a show. The beautiful, multi-million dollar theatre at Southwest seemed like a perfect place to get my start. The first show I was a part of was Footloose and I fell in love. The stage lights were just as hot and exhilarating as they were when I was six and in front of a television camera, but this was even better. I had the chance to put my years of dance to use. There is a very ephemeral quality about theatre—it’s a transient art. Even so, my participation in Southwest theatre turned out to be some of the most memorable times of my life. Before every performance the cast and crew would congregate in the black box, the small theatre. Mr. Bob, our director, had everyone close their eyes and, while “This is the Moment” from the musical Jekyll and Hyde played, we envisioned the show. While the swelling orchestration of the song rang through me I’d watch the success of the production unfold in my mind’s eye. Even now, the song gives me goose bumps, quickening my breath and filling me with a confidence.



Fast forward a few years. After my freshman year of college at UNL, I was astonishingly unsure of what direction my life was taking. I started off as a political science major, but soon found that political theory made me inexplicably violent toward puppies, so I switched majors to English for lack of a better idea. My sophomore year started and was filled with pressure from my parents to decide what I was doing with my future. One October day, during an infrequent meal with my parents, my mother told me of an internship she’d seen advertised. It afforded students the opportunity of living and working in Orlando, Florida at the Disney World Resort. I was unsure at first, but it seemed like an exciting opportunity and a chance to get out of Nebraska, so I applied. January 16th, 2007 saw me arrive in Orlando for what would turn out to be one of the biggest adventures of my life. I made some great friends there, including Nick, a flamboyant and sassy gay guy. We quickly became inseparable. As the end of my college program drew near, we spent more time together, especially outside of work and “A Whole New World” (composed by the musical genius Alan Menken) became our theme song of sorts. We’d drive through the Florida humidity in his blue Neon with the windows rolled down, singing Disney songs as loud as we could. It seemed to be expected that if you worked at Disney, you’d had several CDs full of the songs and Nick did. On my second to last day of work, Nick picked me up at my apartment and we drove to work, holding hands and singing “A Whole New World.” It felt oddly like the end of an era.

Extra Credit - Mathias Svalina

“I am writing you a letter in the weather reports and my every prediction is wrong.” This excerpt from the writing of Mathias Svalina is, in my opinion, heartbreakingly sad. And, coincidentally, rather apropos to Nebraska weather. There is such a sense of ongoing defeat in this sentence that it’s hard to read without becoming a little sad yourself. The persona is separated from the “you” of the letter and making an effort to connect, but just can’t seem to get it right. Despite this, the persona keeps trying. To me, there seems to be an admission of eventual capitulation to the circumstances. If you read this as the description of a long distance relationship, you have to wonder just how long this relationship is going to last. One thing that I love and loathe (but mostly love) about literature is that the construction of characters invariably leaves something to the imagination. Whether that be the continuation of the story or the beginning of events, the reader is left to fill in the information. I think this is wonderful because it gives the reader some sense of control and the ability to change the events at will. Even if it’s a familiar piece, the reader can always come back and find something new not only in the text, but also the information that’s not provided. Ultimately, it all comes back to the text, but it’s an interesting exercise to suppose about the characters based on the information you actually have. Take Steinbeck’s “The Chrysanthemums” for example. What happens when Elisa and Henry make it to town? She’s devastated by the treachery of the salesman, but perhaps she’s strong enough to not let that bother her for long. Maybe she comes home and rips up all the chrysanthemums that gave her so much pleasure. There are endless possibilities.

I Just Can't Stand It

Because I cannot stand this video, I’m going to talk instead about the time surrounding the first time I was made to watch it. I moved to Orlando on January 17th, 2007. I was going to Florida to take a job I was unfamiliar with, live with people I’d never met and try to survive in a climate approximately 800% more humid than I’d ever experienced for an extended period of time. I was excited and nervous, especially about these girls with whom I was going to be rooming. I’d never lived with five other people before, not to mention five girls. We had an interesting spectrum of girls going on in that apartment; there was the dumb one, the sorority girl, the badass, the one who thought she was black, the weird one and me. We got moved in and had a couple days of general training before we had time to share stupid YouTube videos with each other. The very first one just had to be the “Shoes” video. I remember leaning over Mallory’s shoulder as we watched the monitor of her laptop. I honestly have no memory of the “plot” of the video or anything that goes on in it. I do remember the scratchy pea green carpeting that covered the entire apartment and the lumpy paint job covering past tenants’’ nail holes. The weather was startlingly warm, especially coming from the subarctic winter of Nebraska. We’d been vehemently warned to keep windows shut and take out the trash every day because of the pervasiveness of bugs. Inside the apartment though, for the next eight months, the most used words were “betch” and “shoes”. I love those girls, but dear God, I hate this video.