Once again, I'm up far too late, trying to fix a raft of computer problems. This time I'm reinstalling my Exchange organization, migrating DNS zones, and trying to install a new reverse proxy web server. The usual.
I've got my iPod playing away -- I love the Griffin iTrip I bought for it. For $40, I have wireless streaming media at home and in any car. The iTrip takes the output of my iPod and broadcasts it onto any FM channel I select. It doesn't have a large radius, but it's good enough to hit every radio in the house, which means Steph and I can listen to the same music all through the house. Not at all bad for the price.
Right now, I'm listening to my Favorites playlist on shuffle. It just brought up a song I've been meaning to blog about for the past couple of weeks -- Big & Rich's Live This Life -- and I'm struck by how appropriate it is in light of some news I received Monday. First, though, the song:
Met a man on a street last night / said his name was Jesus
Met a man on a street last night
Thought he was crazy / until I watched him heal a blind man
I watched him heal a blind man / and now I see, yeah
Chorus:
I live this life / until this life won't let me live here anymore
Then I will walk / yes I will walk with patience through that open door
I have no fears / angels follow me wherever I may go
I live this life / until this life won't let me live here anymore
Met a girl in a chair with wheels / but no one else could see her
Met a girl in a chair with wheels
Everyone was so afraid / to even look down on her
And she just spread her little wings / and flew away, yeah
Repeat Chorus 2x
For a bit of extra kick, go read what Big & Rich have to say about their songs. From the notes on Live This Life:
The first verse came from a late-night conversation Big Kenny had with a homeless man in Nashville. "I met a man on a street last night/He said his name was Jesus." John and Big both felt that something very important had been laid on them, but three weeks passed by before its purpose hit them and the rest of the song was written. The second verse describes Katie Darnell, a teenage girl and a friend of John and Kenny's who died of brain cancer in the summer of 2003.
The song itself is very simple musically, but B&R have a powerful way of harmonizing. They're joined on this track (I think) by the talented and haunting vocals of Gretchen Wilson. The result is easily my favorite song on this album.
I may seem like I'm switching gears here for a minute, but bear with me. As the release of the Cookbook gets closer, we've had a bunch of last-minute tasks to take care of (uploading scripts to our blog site, publicity, etc.) and one of the ones on my list was finalizing who I was going to send my author copies to. During the QC1 phase, I realized that I'd left two very important names out of my acknowledgements list -- Ms. Kathy Snyder and Mrs. Tricia Boylen, two incredible high school teachers who nurtured my love of writing while ensuring I remained challenged in their classes. Both of them took personal time to read my fledgling stories and give me meaningful critiques. I reealized that even though the Cookbook wasn't quite the first book I'd imagined writing during high school, I wouldn't have gotten to this point without them.
So on Monday afternoon, I called my old high school to find out if they had contact information for them. That's when I learned that Mrs. Boylen passed away last year. It was all I could do to finish my conversation with the nice office lady who I am sure had no idea how her casual news gutted the heart out of my day. After I put the phone down, I sat and cried like I haven't in a long time. I am still stunned and heartbroken as I write this. Although she was talking about retiring at the end of my senior year, she was so full of life and energy. She never seemed to be old enough to be even thinking about retiring; in the fifteen years that have passed in my life from the time I graduated, I've often visualized sending a copy of my first book to Kathy and Tricia. I just assumed they would always be around by the time I got around to getting published.
The worst part was the little voice in my head that whispered that maybe, just maybe if I'd pushed harder on the Cookbook all through last year, if I'd cajoled my co-authors and myself into keeping on schedule, I'd have had time to follow through and send her the book. So I did some more digging. Although the town newspaper charges for access to the web archives, I was able to finagle up enough free information to find out that she died on May 5, 2004. Even with our original schedule, there's no way the book would have been done. Thus I banished that bit of guilt, only to confront another one: I don't think I ever told her that she was one of my favorite teacher, that she and Ms. Snyder were often the only reasons I'd get out of bed and come to school.
I hated my high school years with a passion; I hated the town, I had nothing in common with most of the kids, and what few friends I did have always left me with the feeling they'd befriended me out of pity. I was lucky with my teachers; almost all of them left me feeling that they considered themselves lucky to have me, know-it-all that I was. Kathy and Tricia never made me feel like anything other than the most important student they'd ever taught. I know they tried to make every student feel that way, but the message sunk down deep into my psyche. I've never doubted once, over these fifteen years, that when I finally see my name in print, they'll be absolutely thrilled to see it too. I was so blindly confident that I never thought to take the time to drop them a note and let them know how I was doing. I kept making excuses for why I wasn't writing instead of just sitting down and doing it. If I'd been pushing all through those fifteen years, would I have been published by now? We'll never know.
Between this news and Live This Life, I've received a wake-up call. We only have so much time and then we have to move on.
Speaking of moving on, Exchange is done upgrading. Time to move to bed. Thanks for letting me ramble, if you made it this far.