This close to Valentine's Day, everyone has got romance on the brain. Roses, chocolates, teddy bears, dinner dates, it's become part of the culture. However, I experienced something today that reminded me that love is so much more than that.
I was at work in the church office when my boss Jay's wife called. Jay was out of the office for a moment, so I answered his cell phone, knowing it was his wife. She told me that something was happening at Baker Center (OU's multi-million dollar, 1-year-old student center for all you non-Athens folks) and that it had been evacuated and there was caution tape blocking off the entrance. A simple fire alarm, which we seem to have too many of here, wouldn't cause all that, but I didn't make any speculations. A little while later Katie #1 called me to tell me that the reason Baker Center had been evacuated was because there was a guy threatening to jump from the 5th floor to the 1st floor (again for all you non-Athens folk, the building has open floors, so at one small point, you can stand on the 1st floor and see all the way up through 5 floors to the ceiling- it's open like that because of the escalators). She said that police were inside trying to reason with him, but a group of people outside had formed an impromptu prayer circle, and some people were writing notes to the guy. These were notes of love to a person that most of the people outside the building had never met. They expressed their care for him, that even though he felt alone, he was still loved and taking his own life was not the way to deal with his problems. That was so encouraging to me.
What was even more remarkable was that when I got home a few hours later and was surfing Facebook, I stumbled upon an event called "Love is the Movement." The event page talked about the high depression rates in America, especially by teens, that often leads to suicide, especially this time of year. The event was sort of inspired by a group called "To Write Love on Her Arms" or TWLOHA. Beginning on Feb. 13, the day before Valentine's Day, people in support of this cause will physically write the word LOVE on their arms to show support and, most importantly, love, to people who believe that they no longer have any. I was so baffled that I found this event on the same day that a person on my campus was threatening suicide, and perhaps was dissuaded by notes and signs of love from people he had never even met. I can't describe how encouraging that is to me, to get out there and show love, even to people that I don't know, and that this group and this event had found such a great way to start it.
Think about it. If you have LOVE written on your arms in huge letters, how much of a conversation starter is that? Maybe one of the people who asks you about it is a person who is really needing some love in their life, and maybe you can be the first to show them that love knows no boundaries.
I think The Beatles summed it up best: "All you need is love."
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Only the good die young?
This entry calls for somewhat of a preface/warning label: While the following entry is my response to the unfortunate death of actor Heath Ledger, it is not a gushy "In Loving Memory" praising everything about Heath's life.
It's always sad to hear of a person dying young, especially when they're well known. Regardless of whether or not Heath Ledger's death was a suicide (at the moment, all that's being said is that it may be related to a drug overdose), it's a shocking and sobering piece of news. Of course, as soon as I heard from a person in my film class that he was dead, I subconsciously went into the first state of grief: denial. No way, he's like thirty-something, he can't be dead.
Yes, he is, in fact, dead. And he wasn't thirty-something, he was 28. I didn't know that. 28, he was only 8 years older than me. He was my age when he made "10 Things I Hate About You." This information, by the way, coming from his mini-bio on imdb.com, which also gave me sad news. He has a daughter, Matilda, something I'm sure I read as a headline on the "National Enquirer" or "US Weekly" in a grocery store line at one time, but she's only 2. The mother, "Brokeback Mountain" co-star Michelle Williams, was set to marry Heath up until a few months ago, when he called off the engagement, but the real thing I'm getting at is that their daughter is 2 years old. Two, plus a few months. And I can't even describe the amount of sorrow and empathy I feel for this little girl, because as the daughter of two A-list actors, she's probably going to be hounded by the paparazzi for most of her life. But more than that, does she even understand what's happening here? At the age of 2, does she understand the vast concept of death, and that it means she will never see her Daddy again?
My uncle died when I was 4. I barely knew him, but being that he was my uncle, I was still sad when he died. But I really don't know that I completely understood what was happening, or the levels of grief my parents, aunts, and cousins were going through. I remember being mad that my parents wouldn't take me to Cincinnati for the funeral, but in hindsight, if I had gone, I think rather than being sad, I would have been scared out of my wits. Does a toddler understand the forces of this world that take loved ones from us, and leave us with emotions strong enough to make the most composed of adults break down and cry their eyes out in the middle of a crowded room? To a toddler, that's scary.
And what about everyone else close to this situation? 3 or 4 months ago, Michelle Williams thought she was going to marry the father of her daughter, and then he called off the wedding, and now that man is on a slab at the morgue. It sounds cold and heartless, but it's the truth. I can't even begin to imagine how she has got to be feeling tonight and over the next few days. She loved this man enough to commit her life to him (I will disregard the facts that most celebrity marriages don't work because every once in a while there is one that does), and I imagine that even if they were having enough of a falling-out, or whatever you want to call it, to call off an engagement, they were still close enough emotionally and physically at one point to consider taking vows to one another. If I were in her position, it would be a miracle if i got out of bed tomorrow morning.
And friends? Jake Gyllenhaal, another "Brokeback" co-star and Matilda's godfather, has to live knowing that the man he shared the screen with in one of the more controversial movies (to date) of the 21st century is gone forever. They were more than just friends, they were very close co-workers and artists.
I don't think I know a single person who hasn't seen a movie that Heath Ledger has been a part of, from "10 Things I Hate About You" back in high school to "Brokeback Mountain" more recently, and everything in between. While 'Brokeback Mountain" was something of a groundbreaking film, most of his movies are far from being considered great films of our time. However, he has created some lovable, memorable characters that have earned him a strong fan-base and made a lasting legacy for his name.
This summer will see the last piece of Heath's work, in another ground-breaker (in a sense), as he appears on-screen in "The Dark Knight" as the first non-American to play The Joker in a Batman movie or TV show. The turnout and support for this movie, regardless of the opinions on the aging Batman franchise, will be one of Heath Ledger's lasting, and last, legacies.
R.I.P. Heath Ledger, April 4, 1979-Jan. 22, 2008. Beloved father, friend, and actor, you will be missed.
It's always sad to hear of a person dying young, especially when they're well known. Regardless of whether or not Heath Ledger's death was a suicide (at the moment, all that's being said is that it may be related to a drug overdose), it's a shocking and sobering piece of news. Of course, as soon as I heard from a person in my film class that he was dead, I subconsciously went into the first state of grief: denial. No way, he's like thirty-something, he can't be dead.
Yes, he is, in fact, dead. And he wasn't thirty-something, he was 28. I didn't know that. 28, he was only 8 years older than me. He was my age when he made "10 Things I Hate About You." This information, by the way, coming from his mini-bio on imdb.com, which also gave me sad news. He has a daughter, Matilda, something I'm sure I read as a headline on the "National Enquirer" or "US Weekly" in a grocery store line at one time, but she's only 2. The mother, "Brokeback Mountain" co-star Michelle Williams, was set to marry Heath up until a few months ago, when he called off the engagement, but the real thing I'm getting at is that their daughter is 2 years old. Two, plus a few months. And I can't even describe the amount of sorrow and empathy I feel for this little girl, because as the daughter of two A-list actors, she's probably going to be hounded by the paparazzi for most of her life. But more than that, does she even understand what's happening here? At the age of 2, does she understand the vast concept of death, and that it means she will never see her Daddy again?
My uncle died when I was 4. I barely knew him, but being that he was my uncle, I was still sad when he died. But I really don't know that I completely understood what was happening, or the levels of grief my parents, aunts, and cousins were going through. I remember being mad that my parents wouldn't take me to Cincinnati for the funeral, but in hindsight, if I had gone, I think rather than being sad, I would have been scared out of my wits. Does a toddler understand the forces of this world that take loved ones from us, and leave us with emotions strong enough to make the most composed of adults break down and cry their eyes out in the middle of a crowded room? To a toddler, that's scary.
And what about everyone else close to this situation? 3 or 4 months ago, Michelle Williams thought she was going to marry the father of her daughter, and then he called off the wedding, and now that man is on a slab at the morgue. It sounds cold and heartless, but it's the truth. I can't even begin to imagine how she has got to be feeling tonight and over the next few days. She loved this man enough to commit her life to him (I will disregard the facts that most celebrity marriages don't work because every once in a while there is one that does), and I imagine that even if they were having enough of a falling-out, or whatever you want to call it, to call off an engagement, they were still close enough emotionally and physically at one point to consider taking vows to one another. If I were in her position, it would be a miracle if i got out of bed tomorrow morning.
And friends? Jake Gyllenhaal, another "Brokeback" co-star and Matilda's godfather, has to live knowing that the man he shared the screen with in one of the more controversial movies (to date) of the 21st century is gone forever. They were more than just friends, they were very close co-workers and artists.
I don't think I know a single person who hasn't seen a movie that Heath Ledger has been a part of, from "10 Things I Hate About You" back in high school to "Brokeback Mountain" more recently, and everything in between. While 'Brokeback Mountain" was something of a groundbreaking film, most of his movies are far from being considered great films of our time. However, he has created some lovable, memorable characters that have earned him a strong fan-base and made a lasting legacy for his name.
This summer will see the last piece of Heath's work, in another ground-breaker (in a sense), as he appears on-screen in "The Dark Knight" as the first non-American to play The Joker in a Batman movie or TV show. The turnout and support for this movie, regardless of the opinions on the aging Batman franchise, will be one of Heath Ledger's lasting, and last, legacies.
R.I.P. Heath Ledger, April 4, 1979-Jan. 22, 2008. Beloved father, friend, and actor, you will be missed.
Friday, December 28, 2007
The Christmas Script
You know how watching a favorite movie never gets old? No matter how many times you've seen it and how many time you will watch it again, it's always exciting. You know how it ends, you know the minor plot points, you may even be able to recite most of the lines from it, but it never gets old. That's like Christmas in my house.
Christmas in the Coombs household is just about the same every year, and I don't just mean our (however warped) traditions. Let me paint a picture for you. Since we are not "ethnic" people (the term WASP is incredibly well-fitting to my family), we don't really have "ethnic" traditions. My brother especially envies the Italians (who are a dime a dozen in Youngstown) who have a huge feast of seven fishes and pasta on Christmas eve. While we tend to not agree on much, my brother and I agreed early in life that we needed some Christmas traditions, even of they were strange and of our own making. We pushed for things to be done the same way from year to year so that we had some traditions to speak of. Thus, Sandwich Day was born. Every Christmas eve, my grandparents go to a Jewish deli and get a bunch of pastrami and corned beef, along with some rye bread, and that is the main course of our Christmas eve dinner. We eat deli food on Christmas eve. Sandwiches on rye with dijon, potato salad, macaroni salad, chips and dip, veggies and dip, kolachi, and of course, a plate full of Mom's Christmas cookies.
It's come to the realization of my brother and I that these things happen so similarly every year that you could write it down, even certain things that are said, and it would be the same as last year, and it will be the same next year. So was born the idea of the Christmas Script. For your own amusement (and mine too), I will attempt to convey some of the hilarity that comprises our Christmas traditions.
Rather than attend our usual Methodist church for Christmas eve services, we go to the Presbyterian church that my grandparents attend and that my mom grew up in. This church has a very small congregation, but they are a spirited group. Even though the choir is not very talented, they attempt every year to sing some sort of anthem that is slightly above their level, much to the giggles of my brother and I and two of our childhood friends who attend there. We light the candles near the end of the service and sing "Silent Night" while paying more attention to the hot wax that threatens to drip through the paper drip guard onto our hands at any moment and burn them rather than the song. For some time, this danger prompted us to bring scotch tape to church so that we could tape around the drip guard, thus covering all of the wax's routes of escape that led to our hands. After the service, we, along with y grandparents, head back home. Here is where the real script begins. As soon as we walk in the door, my mother is the first to speak. "Don't change your clothes yet, we have to take pictures!" These pictures are taken in front of the Christmas tree every year, and we probably have enough of them to wallpaper our living room. Every combination of children, parents, and grandparents is photographed, and when we've reached the point of painful smiles, we are finally allowed to change into something more comfortable.
Then the feast begins. Sandwich Day lives up to its name.
Mom: (to Grandma and Papa) How much do I owe you for the meat?
Grandma and Papa: Oh nothing! Don't worry about it!
Mom: This stuff is expensive! You sure?
Grandma and Papa: Yeah yeah, you enjoy it.
The building of sandwiches begins, and we pile our plates high with the food that we can get any time of the year, but for some reason is so much better on Christmas eve.
Mom: Geez, we don't need all this food! Our pants don't fit as it is!
Everyone else: Yeah yeah yeah (as we continue to pile it on).
At this point, my brother grabs the remote and turns the TV onto another tradition: 24 hours of "A Christmas Story" on TBS. My parents are among the few and proud who actually saw this classic in the theaters and they watch it every year, but it's the same lines that always evoke a laugh, and the same discussions that always come up. How historically accurate the sets and costumes are, with the exception of the Mom's hair. How my Dad remembers picking out a Christmas tree in the same manner portrayed in the movie. How Mom remembers Red Life Boy Soap, but never had her mouth washed out with it. How my Dad loves the made-up swear words uttered by the Dad in the story, and wonders if that was scripted or if Darren McGavin just ad-libbed the whole thing. And even though we watch this every year, we can always count on Grandma to ask the question.
Grandma: Oh, what movie is this? Aw, isn't that little boy cute.
Then comes gifts, and while they vary somewhat from year to year, I can usually count on getting hand cream and stationery from my Grandma. And no matter how much or how little we have collectively spent on my grandparents (they are in their late-80s and don't need much, so it's usually a restaurant gift certificate), they always insist on telling us the same thing.
Grandma and Papa: Oh, you folks didn't have to do this, really. You do enough for us.
Mom and Dad: Oh come on, it's Christmas!
After that, we all settle down for the night. My brother, in his wish for some kind of "ethnic" tradition, stays up and watches the Pope give the midnight mass, but ends up making fun of it because of his cynical nature.
My parents have noted that they can tell we are growing up because they are now the ones waking us up on Christmas morning. Since Christmas dinner is always either at our house or at my Aunt and Uncle's in Akron, we either have a lot of cooking or a lot of traveling to do, and that is my mom's justification for moving us along.
Mom: Come on, get up! We have to do Christmas, we have a schedule to keep! Don't roll back over! GET UP!!!
As most teens and college students hate being woken before they are ready to get up, this (along with my mom's incessant yelling) is cause for a lot of grumbling and dirty looks. When we finally drag ourselves to the living room, we each take our places in the usual chairs- somewhere along the line, we all started sitting in the same chairs on Christmas morning, so why should that change now?
Usually a few of the things that we get for Christmas are not surprises in the least, seeing as how my mom insists on buying us clothes, making us try them on, and then telling us "You're getting this for Christmas, okay?" These are the things that we sarcastically pretend to know nothing about. "Oh, it's just what I wanted, how ever did you know? And I bet it fits perfectly..."
Fast forward to Christmas dinner, where my brother and I are trying desperately not to make smart-ass comments about anything, while my Aunt keeps asking us the most ridiculously impertinent questions about nothing. At some point, everyone gets quiet while eating, and someone has to disturb the silence in the usual way. "Do not disturb the animals while feeding."
This all may seem weird, or even boring, but compare it to your own memories of holidays and family traditions. Would it seem right without it?
Until later....
Christmas in the Coombs household is just about the same every year, and I don't just mean our (however warped) traditions. Let me paint a picture for you. Since we are not "ethnic" people (the term WASP is incredibly well-fitting to my family), we don't really have "ethnic" traditions. My brother especially envies the Italians (who are a dime a dozen in Youngstown) who have a huge feast of seven fishes and pasta on Christmas eve. While we tend to not agree on much, my brother and I agreed early in life that we needed some Christmas traditions, even of they were strange and of our own making. We pushed for things to be done the same way from year to year so that we had some traditions to speak of. Thus, Sandwich Day was born. Every Christmas eve, my grandparents go to a Jewish deli and get a bunch of pastrami and corned beef, along with some rye bread, and that is the main course of our Christmas eve dinner. We eat deli food on Christmas eve. Sandwiches on rye with dijon, potato salad, macaroni salad, chips and dip, veggies and dip, kolachi, and of course, a plate full of Mom's Christmas cookies.
It's come to the realization of my brother and I that these things happen so similarly every year that you could write it down, even certain things that are said, and it would be the same as last year, and it will be the same next year. So was born the idea of the Christmas Script. For your own amusement (and mine too), I will attempt to convey some of the hilarity that comprises our Christmas traditions.
Rather than attend our usual Methodist church for Christmas eve services, we go to the Presbyterian church that my grandparents attend and that my mom grew up in. This church has a very small congregation, but they are a spirited group. Even though the choir is not very talented, they attempt every year to sing some sort of anthem that is slightly above their level, much to the giggles of my brother and I and two of our childhood friends who attend there. We light the candles near the end of the service and sing "Silent Night" while paying more attention to the hot wax that threatens to drip through the paper drip guard onto our hands at any moment and burn them rather than the song. For some time, this danger prompted us to bring scotch tape to church so that we could tape around the drip guard, thus covering all of the wax's routes of escape that led to our hands. After the service, we, along with y grandparents, head back home. Here is where the real script begins. As soon as we walk in the door, my mother is the first to speak. "Don't change your clothes yet, we have to take pictures!" These pictures are taken in front of the Christmas tree every year, and we probably have enough of them to wallpaper our living room. Every combination of children, parents, and grandparents is photographed, and when we've reached the point of painful smiles, we are finally allowed to change into something more comfortable.
Then the feast begins. Sandwich Day lives up to its name.
Mom: (to Grandma and Papa) How much do I owe you for the meat?
Grandma and Papa: Oh nothing! Don't worry about it!
Mom: This stuff is expensive! You sure?
Grandma and Papa: Yeah yeah, you enjoy it.
The building of sandwiches begins, and we pile our plates high with the food that we can get any time of the year, but for some reason is so much better on Christmas eve.
Mom: Geez, we don't need all this food! Our pants don't fit as it is!
Everyone else: Yeah yeah yeah (as we continue to pile it on).
At this point, my brother grabs the remote and turns the TV onto another tradition: 24 hours of "A Christmas Story" on TBS. My parents are among the few and proud who actually saw this classic in the theaters and they watch it every year, but it's the same lines that always evoke a laugh, and the same discussions that always come up. How historically accurate the sets and costumes are, with the exception of the Mom's hair. How my Dad remembers picking out a Christmas tree in the same manner portrayed in the movie. How Mom remembers Red Life Boy Soap, but never had her mouth washed out with it. How my Dad loves the made-up swear words uttered by the Dad in the story, and wonders if that was scripted or if Darren McGavin just ad-libbed the whole thing. And even though we watch this every year, we can always count on Grandma to ask the question.
Grandma: Oh, what movie is this? Aw, isn't that little boy cute.
Then comes gifts, and while they vary somewhat from year to year, I can usually count on getting hand cream and stationery from my Grandma. And no matter how much or how little we have collectively spent on my grandparents (they are in their late-80s and don't need much, so it's usually a restaurant gift certificate), they always insist on telling us the same thing.
Grandma and Papa: Oh, you folks didn't have to do this, really. You do enough for us.
Mom and Dad: Oh come on, it's Christmas!
After that, we all settle down for the night. My brother, in his wish for some kind of "ethnic" tradition, stays up and watches the Pope give the midnight mass, but ends up making fun of it because of his cynical nature.
My parents have noted that they can tell we are growing up because they are now the ones waking us up on Christmas morning. Since Christmas dinner is always either at our house or at my Aunt and Uncle's in Akron, we either have a lot of cooking or a lot of traveling to do, and that is my mom's justification for moving us along.
Mom: Come on, get up! We have to do Christmas, we have a schedule to keep! Don't roll back over! GET UP!!!
As most teens and college students hate being woken before they are ready to get up, this (along with my mom's incessant yelling) is cause for a lot of grumbling and dirty looks. When we finally drag ourselves to the living room, we each take our places in the usual chairs- somewhere along the line, we all started sitting in the same chairs on Christmas morning, so why should that change now?
Usually a few of the things that we get for Christmas are not surprises in the least, seeing as how my mom insists on buying us clothes, making us try them on, and then telling us "You're getting this for Christmas, okay?" These are the things that we sarcastically pretend to know nothing about. "Oh, it's just what I wanted, how ever did you know? And I bet it fits perfectly..."
Fast forward to Christmas dinner, where my brother and I are trying desperately not to make smart-ass comments about anything, while my Aunt keeps asking us the most ridiculously impertinent questions about nothing. At some point, everyone gets quiet while eating, and someone has to disturb the silence in the usual way. "Do not disturb the animals while feeding."
This all may seem weird, or even boring, but compare it to your own memories of holidays and family traditions. Would it seem right without it?
Until later....
Back to Blogging
Hi Everyone! I've come back to the world of blogging after a few years' hiatus, cuz it just seemed like something fun to do. My first real post should be up shortly, so keep checking back!
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