One day in recent history, a summer intern and I were visiting the botanical gardens at UNC Chapel Hill. An old log cabin that was once the home of playwright, botanical enthusiast, and North Carolina native Paul Green sits on the garden property. It seems a little random, but inside the cabin visitors can read about different plants that were native to the cabin's original location and their various uses, so it has botanical ties.
Soon after entering the cabin, we were joined by a young family with two small children. They sat down on the benches in the cabin and talked as Kate and I read about Persimmon Beer and other interesting uses for local plants.
All of a sudden, Kate and I heard the dad say to his children, "Maybe these two ladies will sing for us."
"Maybe we'll WHAT?" I thought. As soon as they walked in, I was totally prepared to take a family picture for them, but a request to sing was quite unexpected. Dad, however, asked if we knew "Baa Baa Black Sheep," and so, realizing that we couldn't gracefully excuse ourselves, I turned to Kate and said, "Well, ready for a duet?"
Then, standing in the middle of a 19th century cabin that now sits in a botanical garden, four adults broke into "Baa Baa Black Sheep." (To my relief, the parents didn't expect a duet and jumped right into the song...which all four of us sang in pretty perfect unison, I might add.)
When our song ended, the parents explained that the kids had been singing the song all the way to the botanical gardens and had apparently just requested it again (I hadn't heard the kids' request, only the dad's). I laughed and said that I have a 21-month-old nephew and know that you just have to roll with the whimsy of a kid.
As we walked away and I was trying my hardest not to laugh, I reminded myself that I am once again living in the South, where people are more open about sharing certain parts of their lives with friends and strangers alike. At the same time, the random request struck me as odd...which has since been confirmed by other southerners to whom I have told the story.
So, future note to self and all my readers - if a small family requests that you sing them a song, it's strange (though funny), not southern!
21 June 2010
14 June 2010
Video Tour of my NC Apartment
For any interested parties, here's an 8-minute tour of my new space in North Carolina. (Yes, eight minutes...apparently, I love to blab about my living space.) Enjoy!
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10 June 2010
The Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde of Transition
The dust is beginning to settle. Now that I have successfully arrived in North Carolina and begun my new position with TWR's HR department, I find myself looking around and wondering, "How did I get here? Is this really my new reality?"
On some level I'm quite happy to be here, but I'm also sad not to be there. I enjoy telling people about my new little apartment and what the transition has been like thus far, but I also grow sick of talking about it. (It's kind of like when you're at Freshman Orientation at college, and everyone wants to know where you're from and what your intended major is. After a while, you just get tired of talking about it, even though you're thrilled that people are interested.) I want to establish roots, make friends, and be invited out places, but I also just want to go home, curl up in the fetal position, and be alone.
It's almost like I am my own strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My Dr. Jekyll is all smiles, nice-to-meet-you-yes-it's-great-to-be-heres, and thinking that he (she) should start making some social plans and setting up lunches out. My Mr. Hyde, on the other hand, is wildly emotional, anti-social, and full of I-can't-believe-I've-uprooted-my-life-AGAIN self-pity. It's that strange beast of transition, I'm afraid. No matter how many times you deal with it, it just can't be tamed, though it seems to behave for some better than others.
Don't read this and think that I'm cracking up or in the "depths of despair," as Anne Shirley would say. Most of you (probably those of you who have been through a major transition in recent times) will just realize that I'm being honest. There will come a day when Dr. Jekyll will be seen (or felt) more often than Mr. Hyde. It's just that today is not that day. I have hope that "the day" will come sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I'll take one day at a time and live in the fullness of God's grace.
On some level I'm quite happy to be here, but I'm also sad not to be there. I enjoy telling people about my new little apartment and what the transition has been like thus far, but I also grow sick of talking about it. (It's kind of like when you're at Freshman Orientation at college, and everyone wants to know where you're from and what your intended major is. After a while, you just get tired of talking about it, even though you're thrilled that people are interested.) I want to establish roots, make friends, and be invited out places, but I also just want to go home, curl up in the fetal position, and be alone.
It's almost like I am my own strange case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. My Dr. Jekyll is all smiles, nice-to-meet-you-yes-it's-great-to-be-heres, and thinking that he (she) should start making some social plans and setting up lunches out. My Mr. Hyde, on the other hand, is wildly emotional, anti-social, and full of I-can't-believe-I've-uprooted-my-life-AGAIN self-pity. It's that strange beast of transition, I'm afraid. No matter how many times you deal with it, it just can't be tamed, though it seems to behave for some better than others.
Don't read this and think that I'm cracking up or in the "depths of despair," as Anne Shirley would say. Most of you (probably those of you who have been through a major transition in recent times) will just realize that I'm being honest. There will come a day when Dr. Jekyll will be seen (or felt) more often than Mr. Hyde. It's just that today is not that day. I have hope that "the day" will come sooner rather than later, but in the meantime I'll take one day at a time and live in the fullness of God's grace.
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