Nicknames

Nicknames. We all have them. Sometimes they're funny. Other times serious. Some are terms of endearment. Others are just to bug the living snot out of our friends.

I've never been good at coming up with nicknames. I'm just not creative in that line of thinking, I suppose. If you have one, I'll use it, even if it's not a real name. I call my great-grand little Super Baby because she calls me Super Mama. I'm rather good at using terms of endearment. Instead of coming up with a nickname for a boyfriend, I'll just use terms of endearment. It's easier I suppose, since I'm never good at coming up with nicknames. Lots of my friends go by names that are really nicknames of their given names. I think that's kinda neat. Most of these are ones that they've fashioned for themselves, although I do know on some occasions where even the parents call them by their nickname. My dad is one of these people. As the oldest male child, he is named Gerald after his dad, but has always been called Jerry so as to avoid confusion. But sometimes, nicknames aren't names that we actually go by, but are just used when necessary.

Like mine.

I have no idea when it started or who started it, but people have always called me Rach. I have never asked to be called Rach, at least not that I remember, but I've never minded it either. My parents never really use it, but a lot of other family members, mainly on Dad's side, have used it at one point or another. There's a lot of us on that side of the family, so when we get together, there's always a lot of activity. So lots of times, it's easier to holler out "Rach" to give me some sort of instruction. Over the years many different friends have called me that. Lots of times without asking if I've minded. The truth is I don't mind, but I always find myself thinking "how did they know?" the first time they call me that. I remember a friend's mom calling me Rach, and I'm pretty sure that my friend didn't even call me that, or rarely called me that. I know, I know, Rach is a very common nickname for people named Rachel, but somehow, growing up I always felt like it was something that only people close to me could use, people who knew me really well.

Two weeks ago, I found myself once again with my Dad's family. Everyone was there. My cousin got married, the first wedding we've had in our family in 25 (?) years. Because of everything going on, only the granddaughters stayed at Gigi's house. We ran around doing extra behind-the-scenes work with our mothers, the aunts of the bride. I remember at one point, I think it was even the reception, Amanda calling me out onto the dance floor. "Rach! Come on!

I froze. Not because I was scared of the dance floor. Oh heck no. I was tearing up the dance floor that night, in my Duke flip-flops, because heels were not happening that night. But because she had called me Rach.

You see, nobody here calls me Rach. I don't know why. I don't know if I've given people the impression that I don't want to be called it, but nobody calls me Rach. It's always Rachel. I hadn't been called Rach for the better part of the year, perhaps even longer. It was almost tragic, that that part of me had been missing. There was an intimacy in the name that I hadn't realized was there. And I was sad to think that even though I have a lot of great and close friends here, that I didn't share that part of me with them.

So you can call me Rach. I wouldn't use it as a replacement for Rachel, after all, that's my name, that's what I go by. But if the mood suits you, and you need to get my attention quickly (as is usually the case when my family uses it), you can call me Rach.

If you'll be my bodyguard
I can be your long lost pal
I can call you Betty
And Betty when you call me
You can call me Al

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HOiVaE-pKqM&feature=fvst

All About Soul -Billy Joel

The inspiration for this comes from Billy Joel's song "All About Soul." Look it up, it's a pretty awesome song.



She sits. Waiting for him to speak. He's silent. He doesn't know what to say. There aren't words.

Sometimes they don't need them. Without speaking, they have a silent understanding. They think alike in that way, almost on the same wave-length, most of the time it's a bit scary how they know what the other is thinking.

But sometimes they don't. And this is one of those times. Where did it go wrong? Why is there this break-down in communication? They can't understand it, and yet here it is. They find themselves swallowing nervously, and staring at their shoes instead of looking at each other.

Why is their life so hard? When did it get this complicated?

He wishes things were different. He wishes he could make things easier for her, but it's out of his control. He's afraid of her giving up. Of her not being able to take anymore, and just running away. He fears this because he knows that she's had her moments. Like right now. He knows that she feels like she's at the end of her rope. And he prays to God that she doesn't give up.

He can't live without her. If she left, he wouldn't be able to survive. She is what keeps him going. He loves her, so much. She is his air, and no one understands him like she does.

"I'm sorry." he whispers. It's so quiet, one would almost wonder if he spoke it out loud. But she hears it. He knows she does. She always does.

She doesn't speak. Instead she reaches out and grabs his hand. The gesture says everything.

I know. I forgive you. I'm sorry too. I'm not running away. I understand. I know what you're feeling. This isn't your fault. I don't blame you. I love you.

It's all about soul.

Trains

I hear the train whistle blow far off in the distance tonight, and then I hear the click-clack of the wheels, of the train racing through town and right by my apartment, two blocks from where I live. If I walk out onto the street out in front of my complex, I can even see it passing by going eastward through town. Trains are not new to me, I have always lived rather close to the tracks, although here in Durham is the closest I've ever lived to the tracks and the place where I've had them pass through the most frequent.

My grandparents are fascinated by trains. I have no idea where they get their fascination. I believe I had some relatives that worked with trains, but other than that I can't be sure. What I do know is that my grandparents are part of the Roanoke Chapter of the National Railroad Historical Society and volunteer in a museum that contains much of the life work of a photographer who, you guessed it, photographed trains. When I was little, the Chapter, as we call it, would take train trips through Norfolk Southern (previously Norfolk & Western before merging with Southern Railway in 1982, see what a nerd I am?) and I would sit in the Chapter's rail cars, (yes, the Chapter has their own rail cars) fascinated by the world whizzing by me. I loved the speed of how fast they moved.

I still love moving trains. I love the power behind them. They're rather terrifying, actually, when you think about how fast the move, and how big they are. No car can stand a chance. The other day, I was stopped by the train at Anderson and Main and was the first car in line. I think it was actually the first time that I've been in the drivers seat when a train rushed past (at home, the train does not rush, it crawls) and I was literally ten feet from the train. It was amazing, but terrifying, and I had my foot pushed as hard on the brake pedal as I could, for fear of me slipping and the car moving forward.

One block over from my apartment, there is a railroad bridge, where Erwin Road goes under the railway instead of the cars driving over it. It's not very high up, but I would love to be able to sit under it while the train passes by above me. One night, a friend and I were driving eastbound on Main when the train came up beside us. We ducked down under the train onto Erwin, and I will always remember it as one of the most exhilarating moments of my life. I wish we could have stopped the car right there and not had to keep moving with the traffic. I've never felt so alive and free, as we drove under the tracks with my head hanging out the window. (If the car had had a sun roof, you can guarantee I would have been hanging out of it, probably a good thing that it didn't, I might have scared my driver).

In Footloose, at least in the stage version, Ariel (female lead) takes Ren (Kevin Bacon) to her hiding place, the lower part of the railroad bridge, underneath the tracks. They sit on one of the support beams high above the ground and talk. He is quite shocked from her slightly dare-devil antics, and amused by her yelling when the train rumbles over top of them. But he understands what her other friends and family don't understand. She doesn't have a death-wish, she just wants to feel alive.

I want that. I want to have the wind rush through my hair, and the rumble of the train rush through my ears, I want to feel my heart pound as the wheels churn down the tracks. I want the thrill of being up high, the exhilaration, the excitement.

I want to feel alive.

An Introduction

I like to write with purple pens. And I like pointe shoes. As if you couldn't guess that. Both of these things are important components of my life. Maybe I'll write about them. This space is a place where I can share what I've written and work on improving my writing skills. Welcome.