Ohio Girl

Kurt Busch dominated the day and took home the victory at Pocono. Rusty Wallace, Mark Martin and Ricky Rudd all delivered near-winning performances. In the points standings, Gordon and Jr. failed to make the headway they hoped for and Stewart moved into second place, booting Biffle to third. Busch's celebratory burnouts were tame and muted. I almost expected him to get out of the car and do a dance, or sacrifice a chicken, to keep the momentum of individualized, victory rituals going strong. I accomplished my own race goal by not moving a muscle during the entire four-plus hours of viewing. Next weekend Cup series takes a break in preparation for Indy on August 7^th.

I went for Scoops the other day—a yummy ice cream shop on Professor located in Tremont. As I drove past Lincoln Park I was misty for the time I lived in that neighborhood. My place was on West 18^th, a street narrow enough to be one-way, (although it was not) and brick-lined. It was tucked behind an overpass, but quiet. The small yards were filled with flowers. My neighbor-always on his porch-monitored the comings and goings of residents and visitors alike and always shared plates of pork and rice when his daughters came to cook. A few houses down a man raised roosters (I never liked to ponder the purpose) and waking up to their calls was romantic and otherworldly.

On my nightly dog walks kids came out to pat my Sophie's back. They would giggle when she unabashedly plopped down in the street to beg a belly rub. After passing by a home where two goats lived in the yard, we always headed up Willey past the APL. Hell's Hill, as I came to call it.

Each night there was a new discovery to be made-discarded toys, old shoes, bits of torn clothing. Bikes would appear, bent and rusted out, over night. Sophie sniffed out animal carcasses, including a large, skinned deer whose eyes peeked out blankly from a Hefty bag. For a few weeks a homeless man made his encampment in the brush and waved as we passed. I always considered walking a different route, but Hell's Hill, with the clichéd allure of beauty and horror, could not be avoided.   

Driving eastbound on Storer, right around West 60th, things suddenly look southern. A weeping willow, so large it seems to confound its urban confines, hangs over a Marathon station. The gas there is 16 cents cheaper than the one by my house.

Tony Stewart climbed the fence again, this time to celebrate atop the flag stand following his win at Loudon, NH. This is Stewart's third win out of the last four races with his first fence-hopping coming at Daytona a few weeks ago. It is a gimmick. He said as much declaring it was his thing and if anyone else did it, they would be crude imitators. Maybe he came up with this in response to the victory back flips of rookie Carl Edwards. Maybe it was pure inspiration at finally pulling off a Daytona win. Either way, I approve. (I like the back flips too, mind you.) It is exhilarating and plain fun to see Tony scaling the tall fences and making his way over the curved top to commune with the crowd. And going over the top is kept from being over the top by the fact that he looks like one of us doing it—ungraceful, huffing and puffing, declaring his own amazement that he got his big rear up there at all.

The humidity-it is still taking up all the space in my brain. It reminded me of a hot day last summer when a colleague and I attended a conference at a prison here in Ohio. Chatty social workers and dubious, gum-chewing Corrections Officers crammed into a large room for the presentation-while women in khakis walked by smoking. The heat and the monotone of the lecturers made it impossible to concentrate. I did what I always do when conferences, in-services, or staff meetings go terribly wrong. I wrote haiku.

I may fall asleep

with dreams of razor wire

and women in suits

Donuts and peaches,

bagels topped with creamy cheese

Atkins fallen dead

My head is itching

Oh, what will become of me

if bugs have nested?

My underwear pinch

What will I do today?

Better choice Day 2

The perky intern

in a perky blouse and skirt

Hops to the issues

Risky Business

Wasn't that a big movie?

Woman in man's shirt

Phenomenon too

a movie, but not so big

Travolta sans dance

Is assault simple?

Aggravated is more clear

more simple to judge

Cognition sounds like

ignite, as in to light up

Steady smoldering

My head starts to pound

Dull like soft knocking at first

Revs up like motor

Phyllis is sure mad

Feminism discovered

Welcome the seventies

My brave, new boyfriend

Crossing hard ground to bring me         

palatable drink

(Dedicated to the nice CO who marched all the way

across the compound to get me a Diet Coke.)

My hair keeps curling despite the fact that I flat-ironed it just this morning. The humidity in Cleveland has reached that level that reduces us all to whining 90 year olds-decrying the heat, but recalling when it was way worse back in '32. It is difficult to tell where the Lake Erie horizon ends and the heavy sky takes over. It is thus way too humid for writing a proper first posting.

Back in the fall-when it was pleasantly brisk-Ohio was the center of the presidential election showdown. This is something I journaled at that time:

At midnight, southbound 71 departing from Cleveland was all mine. Northbound belonged to John Kerry, or maybe it was George Bush.  It was too dark to see what the buses said, Believe in America, or Yes We Can.  A wall of police cars flanked the caravan. "Huh," I said to my dog riding in back. She looked up to peer at the flashing lights, yawned, and slept through the Ohio flatlands all the way to the southwest corner.

The harried Ohio visits of both candidates mirror my own criss-crossing of the state. Originally from Reily Township, a stones throw from Indiana and close to Cincinnati, I have lived in Cleveland for the last several years. I make the journey south to see family as often as I can. I am intimate with the exits of 71 as well as the back road routes. My urban environment slowly shifts to small towns to farmland, like the changing of seasons. The color of politics shifts as well, as the Kerry-blue of the northeast slowly gives way to a sea of Bush-red in the south.   

This shifting political landscape can be traced within my own family. A social worker, I voted for Nader in the last election. Perhaps to make up for the vague guilt of a wasted vote, I am now enthusiastically behind Kerry. I need a candidate who can muster at least a little sincerity for the people with whom I work-the poor, the struggling, the families barely getting by. 

My brother and his wife, who live in a suburb near Cincinnati, are Bush supporters. Their allegiance centers around a show of strength in the war on terror. In my brother's world of sales, a show of strength--staying the course--means food on the table for his children.

My parents in Reily are serially disappointed by the extent to which those they help to elect, Republican or Democrat, have improved their lives. My Father, a steelworker, has watched plants around him move overseas. He has survived layoffs, experienced a decline in wages, and lives in fear of his factory closing before he can reach retirement. This stress is constantly compounded by his care of my grandparents who are nearly indigent and facing heart disease and Alzheimer's. "I'm not crazy about Kerry," he says, "but I don't think we can survive much more of Bush."

And then there is my sister, the non-voter. Busy with raising her daughter and working full-time, she is distracted from the threads of politics running through her daily life.   

Political debates over Saturday-night pizza can become lively with this bunch. My brother and I are most likely to raise our voices, my Mom and sister most likely to roll their eyes. But discord quickly gives way to agreement on the basics; working to keep the bills paid, caring for family, maintaining the Ohio we love for the next generation. All of whom, as we talk, busily play with trucks and crayons on the floor.