Sunrise on the Mackinaw Bridge… one of the few things on the 19-hour road trip that I enjoy. Others include cherry coffee, 4am boat counts, and of course, the two dead hookers. But I digress.

The sunrise made me sad this time. I almost drove off the bridge staring at it. I nudged a snoring hippie, “Look, it’s beautiful!” watched his blank stare scan the horizon and then one half-open eye turned toward me and I smile-sighed, “Yes, you may go back to sleep now.” He wasn’t awake. But even if he had been, I’m not sure he would have understood completely. Not completely.

When my childhood sweetheart and I broke up, I lost a friend. When my ex and I divorced, I lost the big screen TV. When Wisconsin and I broke up, I lost the entire chain of Great Lakes. I lost my water.

Breaking up hurts. Even after the hurt is healed, the memory can sting. Seeing the water at sunrise, the reflections, the tiny white caps and the boats gliding across it, made me yearn to dip my feet. I wanted to pick rocks and find shells. I wanted to dig my toes in the sand at the edge of the surf and wait for them to be engulfed in a wet mire of tiny crystals. I get giddy when I see the water. I’ve stopped before and taken a twenty minute break from the drive-from-hell to run along her shores, kids and hippie in tow. But I couldn’t stop this time. There was a family wedding to get to and we were late. I swallowed back a tear and kept driving, window down so I could smell the water and relive a thousand memories.

Even though breaking up hurts, it’s those little things you hold on to that make the occasional twinge of pain easier to bear—the good memories you fall back on, the ones that drown out the bad. Yes I miss my water, but there’s water here. It’s just different water. And I have memories, lots and lots and lots of them—from childhood through teenage years and on into adulthood. Lots.

And I have physical reminders.

Because when you break up, you always take something with you. You hold onto some little physical reminder. When my childhood sweetheart and I broke up, I wrapped the love letters in ribbon and tucked them into my babybox. I still have them, and the half-heart necklace is in a jewelry box. When my ex and I broke up, I put away specific jewelry to be handed down someday. And when Wisconsin and I broke up, I took her rocks. I have stones around the house and several pebbles I keep in my purse. They’ve lost their smell (yes, rocks have a smell) but just the sight of them is enough to allow me to let go of the hurt of the break up. To remember the good times.

Apparently, I have “an extremely high moral compass.” Seems if you want to give back the incorrect change the clerk gave you, or any of the other things listed to me, you have a high moral compass. But the conversation turned, and it wasn’t about the compass anymore. It was about the points on the compass. Or rather, who they point to.

Fine, I have a high moral compass. Blame my mom, I do for almost everything anyway. I’m comfortable with it. It’s kept me out of trouble on countless occasions, including a few I clearly remember wishing it didn’t exist for. But it’s MY moral compass. It’s what points me north or south, right or wrong. It’s there to keep me straight, not judge others. And it has shocked me (a few times in the past) to find out that “fear of my judgement” because of my “high moral compass” is possible. Really? This is me. Everyone talks to me, tells me secrets, confides—because above all else, I’m loyal. And shouldn’t that loyalty automatically mean I won’t judge? It’s not my place to judge—it’s my place to love.

Oh wait… Thursday… there should be a question. Sorry, I got all rambly there. I could do a whole blog on judging, which turned into it’s own conversation and moved locations and oy… Hmmm… Ok, how about this:

Do you have a compass? Nah, that’s a given, even if it’s a little broken one, you’ve still got one. Ok, how about: Where’d you get it from? Does your moral compass come from your upbringing? Your faith? Your experiences? Your desires to be a certain way? How did you come to the morals that you hold yourself by?

I guess I answered before I asked this week. I got them from my mom, but also from experiences. There are certain things I will never ever evah do, because they were done to me. They hurt on a level that can never be properly expressed and I would never want to a.) be responsible for making someone feel like that, b.) sink to the level of those that did it to me. My compass is part mom, part me—but sorry, no pink elephant. I personally don’t think an invisible entity threatening my afterlife is a good enough reason to behave in this life. I live the way I do because before I die, I have to live… with myself.

I love dreamsicles. No, really, you need to understand… I turn into a twelve-year-old when I hear the ice cream truck. I jump up and down and run to find my wallet or the hippie’s pocket, bat my eyelashes, and smirk like a kid that knows what they’re getting for Christmas. And every time the ice cream truck stops, someone brings me back a dreamsicle. They don’t ask what I want. They know. Because I love dreamsicles.

Because they taste like summer.

I heart Ra in general. Sunshine is a good thing. It makes your soul smile and your skin tingle. But if you zero in on the generality of sunshine and just consider summer… well, that’s where I went while savoring the last dreamsicle I had.

I said it tasted like summer to whomever was standing there, and then I thought about that. What else tastes like summer? Better yet, what other senses bring summertime to my mind?

I hit that thought again at work during last week’s heat wave. As many of you know, I abhor shoes. I am barefoot whenever possible, even if it gets me yelled at by certain waitresses that will be missed at HFW this year (Nora!) or other people of supposed authority. As such, I was barefoot at work when I went out to get the mail. Walking across the parking lot was like walking on lava, but instead of cursing the heat, my mind traveled back to a summertime long ago.

When I was seven, we lived in Texas. Across from our apartment building was a giant field, then a 7-11. I was sent to get tomato paste. I don’t know why I remember it was tomato paste mom needed, but I do, because the mind and memory are weird like that. I have no idea what I learned in eighth grade history, but I know thirty-four years ago my mom needed tomato paste. And I was barefoot. And the parking lot of that 7-11 was like lava.

Pavement threatening to blister my feet feels like summer.

And then I remembered what I said about the dreamsicle and I wondered about the five senses of summer again. So I started thinking about it. Dreamsicles taste of it. Hot asphalt feels like it. What looks, sounds and smells of it?

Smell could be lilacs, but that’s cliché and more spring than summer. Bonfires? Perhaps. Because they remind me of parties at the point, burning tires, laughing with friends and sitting on the sand. Sound could easily be associated with the ice cream truck music, but that’s a little too close to the dreamsicle and each sense deserves its own trigger. A new summer sound would be cicadas. They’re loud and obnoxious and absolutely fascinating, if only because they’re still new. Perhaps next year that will sound like summer. This year, it’s too fresh and sound will have to settle for being… I don’t know. And I don’t have any idea what summer looks like to me. I’ll have to think about these things. Or rather, pay attention. Because I don’t believe I can just remember, or decide, what summer smells, looks or sounds like. Not with that same rush of warmth through my chest that the dreamsicle and asphalt brought to me. Not with that tickle in my mind that reminded me of childhood summers and the escapism brought with them. I think those things have to be experienced with an “Ah-ha” moment, where I become twelve again and declare “this” smells like summer.

Moments of declaration are a strange thing. In this case, a whimsical thing. Equating a sense to a season is just a fun exercise in silly at this point. But silly is good. It keeps you young. It makes you buy sidewalk chalk and blow bubbles in the house. I keeps your spirit high when stress wants to drag it down. And it helps you live the only life you’re going to get.

Summer is different now (sorry mom, I’m going there). Summer is warmer and lasts longer. It comes earlier and stays late, like a canadian trying to suck the most out of a three-day weekend. It brings fireflies by the droves and a night sky that doesn’t quite look right to me. It smells like tiki torches and feels like the cool water of a kiddie pool. Someday, I’ll figure out the other senses—by accident. Right now, I have a dreamsicle, that tastes just like summer.

Nate Southard. Every girl needs a boy in her posse that makes her try harder just to keep up—this is mine. I hate him. I love him. And his blog is just as varied as those emotions. This particular blog sings to the writers out there, whether professional or wannabe. Read it. Love it. Share it. Hurry, Wait, Hurry, Wait

Alethea Kontis. The princess. Because every wicked witch should have an adversary that they actually love and adore and play scrabble with and giggle next to on a mini trampoline—this is mine. And sometimes, even a princess can get angry. This one is for the tech-heads out there. Own an iphone do you? Ever had some form of technology go obsolete before you were ready for it to? This particular post if for you. Read. Love. Share. Rotten Apples.

Bob Ford. The hippie. Before we dated and long after he’s done with me, he will be the Coop of our generation. He writes beautiful words with an ease that makes me want to kill him, but instead I adore him and just plot to take him out in some fiction at some point. He sucks at blogging. No really, he does. But he’s trying. He’s doing blogs twice a week now—memories and questions. And if we don’t play along with his questions he’s stop blogging again. So think over this and give him an answer… Read. Love. Share. The Lure of Passion.

Maurice Broaddus. Mo. I love the hell out of him, and want to slap him on a regular basis. His blog is poignant and/or professional, depending on the mood and whether or not he’s been to church in the last 24 hours. Sometimes, he forgets the internet is forever and goes a little deeper than he should. But we love him for it anyway. This one will make you think, no matter who you are, where you’re at, and should be read, loved and shared. Addicted to (Self-)Love.

Wrath James White. The only friend I have without a nickname, hmmmm I’m going to have to fix that. Intelligent, deep, thoughtful, brutal, abrasive and wonderful. His blogs are worth reading even if they make you ache, especially if they make you ache. This one will make you fear… after you read his and think about your own. Read. Love. Share. This I Fear.

Need more? There’s a whole list on the right of my page there. See it? They’re all on blogs and livejournal and myspace, and have facebook or twitter or everything. Click through them. You’ll find mentors, big brothers, sisters, inspiration and aspiration, writers, readers and well, friends… old to me, maybe new to you. Read them. Love them. Share them.

ps. and Happy Birthday to two of my cancers…

It’s a fun game, that smoke break. I check Pisces and Cancer… I happen to be a fish and know a few other fish & crabs. If I don’t like the message, or it doesn’t hold true for me, I just assume it’s for one of the others with that sign. Yesterday’s offered this tidbit:

“Think back to your favorite childhood meal and recreate it for someone you love today. It’s a great time for good food, good company and ever better chatter. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy—you just need to enjoy each other’s company in a comfortable manner. Go ahead and call that special person and tell them what you have in mind. They should be ecstatic.”

I didn’t actually read anything beyond the first line. That one stumped me. Favorite childhood meal? And then a little voice inside my head screamed “Garage talk!”

Now, because of my answer, we’re going to tweak this just a bit for the purpose of Thursday and you obviously don’t have to go cook it. What was your favorite childhood meal? Think back… If not a particular meal, or even with it, what great food memory do you have?

When I was a kid, my parents had this tradition. On your birthday, you got to choose the restaurant. Sometimes it was just me and them, sometimes it was the whole family. From ten to eighteen, I always, always, always chose Jade Fountain. I’ve loved Chinese food for as long as I can remember. I blame my mother’s stint as a waitress at Bob’s Chop Suey when I was four—no, I didn’t use “Bob” as a generic like I used to, that’s the actual name of the place. I remember the narrow stairs that led to the second floor restaurant. I remember the smells that hit halfway up those stairs. And I have fond memories of Bob’s kitchen—and the little candies they used to feed me. We went to Jade Fountain when I was about ten. I was sold for life. Hell, I’d still go there in a heartbeat when visiting if the opportunity arose. The atmosphere is outstanding. Fountains and Buddhas and koi ponds and rich, culture-filled chewy goodness everywhere you looked.

For childhood triggers? Chinese food wins. It brings back Bob’s (which is sadly now a tanning salon) and Jade Fountain. It brings back meals of experimenting with flavor, laughing with family, and being the birthday girl at the table… ah crap, I just came up with an idea for another blog!

Your answer? (Mom, so help me BOB, if you email your answer instead of posting it this week… )