Ahh, autumn. It’s the most beautiful time of year.
Mother Nature shows us the full spectrum of her creativity. There’s a crispness in the air, masked only by the faint smell of fall bonfires off in the distance.
It’s also, annoyingly, when the incessant complaining about my outfit starts.
Here’s the thing. I’m always hot. Always. Touch my arm and you’ll find it’s actually giving off heat.
Come to think of it, that might be a good way to make extra money on the side. I could stand in the middle of your house, acting as a heat source. “I’ll cut down your electric bills!” my marketing material will shout.
If I were to utter the words “I’m cold,” the calendar would read Dec. 21 and there would be, in fact, an apocalyptic event that ended the world. Provided we’d still be able to publish after said apocalypse, you would read about my utterance on the front page of the Kokomo Tribune. It would be that big of news. So much so that it would outshine the world’s demise. That we sorta saw coming. My being cold would be a revelation of epic proportions.
It just doesn’t happen. I just don’t get cold. I’ve been this way my whole life.
As a child, my family would literally burn me out of the house. In the dead of winter, to escape the oven I called home, I would stand on the front porch, bare feet against cold concrete. I would stand there long enough to recovery before returning to suffer through the inferno my family enjoyed.
When I grew up and became an “adult,” I basked in my independence. Not the ability to eat what I wanted or go to bed when I wanted. For the first time in my life, I was ruler over the thermostat. I resisted the urge to lord over it with a crown and velvet robe, swatting a jeweled staff at any minion who dared approach.
“This is my land,” I would declare to my subjects. “No heat shall pass!”
I wear flip flops and sandals until there is snow on the ground. Even then, there are exceptions to that rule. This results in friends, coworkers and people I pass on the street getting on me about my perceived lack of outerwear, saying something about it being “cold.”
Because of this, I bought a new coat a couple years back. It’s a pea coat-style, black number I get a lot of compliments on. Not so much on the style, but that I’m wearing a coat at all.
Everyone: Oh, I like your coat.
Everyone: It’s so nice to see you actually wearing a coat because it’s so cold out.
Me: Yeah, I decided I should start dressing appropriately for winter. I’ve seen the errors of my way.
Everyone: Good job!
The trick is, though, this isn’t just any coat, mind you. It’s actually a light-weight sweatshirt material made to look like a winter coat.
I’m sneaky like that.
interim [friday] editor/a walking disco inferno
Ahh, autumn. It’s the most beautiful time of year.
A day in the life
My love for words was written into a hobby at an early age. I wrote stories about the nature I witnessed from my window, experiences I shared with my Pap and anything that came to mind. From age 9, most of my moments were stories my mind hadn’t written yet. For me, writing was the tool that enriched my experiences. If I went to the children’s museum and saw something that struck me, I’d write about it.
Facebooks threads into more than I expected
“Lindsay, what’s on your mind?”
I immediately thought, “I’d have to be pretty self-centered to think my ‘Facebook friends’ would care about such an answer.” So, the section stayed blank on my profile for far longer than most.
After 18 interviews, copious note-taking, endless discussions and picture browsing for a story about something bigger than its parts — i.e. Kokomo Speedway — is nearly finished. To be honest, I’d never been to Kokomo Speedway until last year. I grew up watching the Indy 500 and picking a name from a hat, but my racing knowledge ended there. But, when you fall in love with someone who fell in love with Kokomo Speedway — most likely when he was still in the womb as his mom watched his dad race — your knowledge increases, exponentially.
Earth Day: Experience it every day
“No litterers allowed,” stated the sign I drew up with peace signs and flowers with extra power that adorned my bedroom door as a kid. Growing up, I was a litter patrol lady. Toss a banana out the window? You were going to face the wrath of a 6-year-old. Leave a soda can at the park? Oh my, a mistake you don’t want to make. My cousins would purposely provoke such opportunities for nothing more than to get the entertaining spiel of keeping the Earth safe from a 6-year-old. I encouraged institutionalizing recycling in our household and double-checked trash cans to make sure recycling objects didn’t make their way into the wrong places.
The Waving Girl
She was born on land, but her soul was given life from her love of the sea and the lives it carried. Her journey started simply and ended sentimentally. During the in-between, she was the symbol of home to the hearts of maritime travelers: At night, she was the illumination of guidance. At morn, she was the breeze the sea gently exhaled. For 44 years, she was ingrained with the Savannah River’s sand — just as she was ingrained in the minds who witnessed her waving handkerchief interrupt a sun ray’s storyline. S
Never too late for April Fool’s Day
This will be my last column for the [friday] section, as Kokomantis has been promoted from corner-side spectator to Lifestyle Editor ... Just kidding, late April Fool’s Day joke! I look forward to writing my column every week just like I look forward to my favorite “holiday” every year. For 364 days, I plan pranks of all varieties for my beloved day that’s dedicated to flipping my family and friends out.
The Egg Battle of 1990
Easter may be a time of sugary sweet Peeps and darting for hard-boiled eggs dressed in their Easter Sunday best. For me, it’s been about that and getting back to my roots. Growing up, my family and I nestled into my Pap’s motor home and headed for the mountains of West Virginia – our annual Easter Sunday home for my entire childhood.
As a Hoosier, it’s hard to believe Wednesday night marked my first bracket-building experience. Despite my love for sports, I never got into brackets. I’m a one-team-at-a-time gal so in the fall it’s the Colts; in the winter it’s the Hoosiers; and in the spring and summer I go to baseball games for the people watching and soft pretzels. So, I never learned the pros and cons of other teams and what makes them worthy of winning in a bracket.
Reality is only as deep as our passions
When I was in seventh grade the “Real World” was a reality show I was forbidden to watch. The behaviors flaunted were borderline unfit for TV, let alone a 12-year-old’s eyes. However, that’s what older cousins were for, I suppose, because my remote somehow found its way to MTV a time or two and lessons in how to not live your life ensued. But, today Howard County 7th graders are getting a multifaceted look into life in the “Real World” — and not the kind that encompasses Jell-O wrestling and TV-censored bleeps interrupting 80 percent of a sentence.
You belong among the wildflowers
It’s the kind of lyrics that wreck your heart and warm your heart all at the same time. The melody happily whistles well wishes while the fingertips of yearning for yesteryear slip over each note. It’s the kind of song that sounds like the simplicity of childhood and feels like the rare chance of finding and living a childhood-type happiness — even if the years between now and the date on your birth certificate say you’re an adult.
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