Mom, in her infinite wisdom, has named this blog category. Well, not really, but she voiced the option she preferred and I really liked her reasoning. Reason. Yeah, moms are good at that some times.
See, garage talk came about in real life because once upon a time I met a princess in a garage. I sat on a mini-trampoline (at left), sucking my coffee, while the Broaddus household slept (and let me tell you, they enjoy their sleep!) and a groggy Greek princess crawled out of bed, grabbed her own coffee and joined me. We listened to the birds wake the neighborhood and then go quiet while they busied themselves with other things. We talked about writing and family, boys and men, life and fantasy. An hour in, Broaddus family still unconscious, you’d have thought we’d been friends forever, or sisters, or something.
We did that every morning that weekend. We dubbed it “garage talk” because it’s where we met, it’s where we continued to dig into each other’s soul and peek under each other’s band-aids, and giggle at the similarities that were too glaring to miss. Our discussions encompassed everything. And nothing.
It came about here because I needed a new category. “Coffee talk” was just a reminder of a friend that isn’t talking to me. The friend that coined the term. Yeah, I needed a new term. New Year, new blog—time for a change. Coffee Talk was usually a question, Garage Talk will be mostly observations.
And then there was mom’s reason…ing. Mom liked “garage talk” because different people see different things. She likened it to the garage sales she goes to with her best friend, where they are in the same garage, at the same time, but see different things. Observations are like that. The more people that see something, the more meanings or reasons that thing develops.
So… welcome to my garage. Everything is less than a dollar, nothing is returnable or exchangeable, batteries are not included, and I promise to tell you the meanings of the things I see… at least as they’re interpreted by my little girl eyes and old woman’s mind.
Traditional gypsies never had garages, but I bet they could have gone garage saling like champs!
Sometimes, quite literally. Thus the plunger, but I’m getting ahead of myself…
And then the lice happened. Not really breaking anything, other than a 12-year-old psyche, which was eventually fixable. We cleaned, we scrubbed, we burned her head and we went to sleep. And woke up to find that the little bastards were not gone. All right, then! Round two. Line everyone up like monkeys at the zoo digging for a light snack and start checking heads. Find some here, some there, and the occasional single critter that we dubbed “contact high.” That’s enough for napalm. Burn everyone’s heads, clean everything in the house, dip everything in bleach and chemicals, and boil all the hairbrushes.
