I’m sitting here with a huge plate of mom’s pasta recipe in front of me. I have the windows open and I can smell the cool, green wind and hear the birds chirping as the sun goes down. I saw the first hummingbird of the year at my feeders a few days ago (a boy) and my first girl one today. The Stump is snoring a bit in her sleep behind me and I’m all caught up on work.
I live for days like this.
When my best friend Christine let me know on Wednesday night that Meredith was missing, a ripple of fear immediately went through me. Missing. That was word that was reserved for people on the news. Other people. People I didn’t know personally. I shoved it down quickly and fervently ran through every news station on TV and on the web. Only one had something about Mere. It said she’d been missing since the night before, when she went out hiking with Ella. I thought to myself “Surely they’re mistaken. Mere would never go hiking alone. She’s smarter than that.” I puzzled over this for 30 minutes before finding something new about it, this time the information that Ella’s leash and Mere’s water bottles were found. That ripple of fear went through me again. Missing, in the cold, with no water.
I took a deep breath and shoved it down again. She’s smart, she’s experienced, she’s tough, and she’s got Ella with her. It’ll be cold, but she’ll be fine. Ella won’t leave her. When called that night, John and I immediately decided to go up the next morning and help look. I felt really good about it myself. I’m not a very fit person, but I have sharp eyes and was sure that we’d find her tucked under some leaves with Ella keeping her warm. I went to sleep that night dreaming about how happy she’d be when we found her.
The next morning, John and I got up at 4am to drive to Bruce and Christine’s house. John is an Eagle Scout, so he knows how to dress for cold. I was wearing 2 pairs of socks, three pairs of pants, four shirts, two coats and gloves, a hat, and a scarf. I could barely buckle my seatbelt as we got into the car. I looked at the thermometer on the dash: 28F When we got to Bruce’s house 45 minutes later, it was still 28F. My toes hurt, but I was still convinced that Mere was warm and happy under some leaves with Ella, just lost and staying put because she’s smart enough to know not to go anywhere. John and I met Bruce, Little Jon, Kevin, Tim and Marisa there, and we combined into two cars and began driving. We stopped at a gas station to fill up before getting too cold. 30F, but I was dancing in the checkout line imagining how happy everyone would be when she was found.
As we drew near the mountain, my hopes began to waver. The temperature had been dropping the entire time. We passed huge icicles and snow on the ground on the wavy road there, ad by the time we’d gotten to the tiny store and hotel there at 7am, the dash read 5F. We stopped to don our last layers and use the bathrooms before beginning a rough day. As we stepped out, the cold air whipped down the slope and ripped the rime off the trees. My breath caught in my chest; how could anyone live in this or more than an hour? “Ella,” I reminded myself. “She’s got Ella.” At the trailhead, we were the first people there aside from two policemen. They stopped us and said that the helicopter was up and they weren’t allowing people up the slope until it was done flying. They expected to be done by 10:30am, so they sent us all back to the little store to wait it out in the warm. As we got there, the first news van (11 alive) pulled up. One reporter went up the road to talk to police, the second stayed with us at the store. People were jovial and talkative. Hopes were high.
The second reporter, Julie Wolfe, began to interview a store employee. It was then that we learned a new bit of terrifying information: Meredith’s water and Ella’s leash hadn’t been found alone. With them were a pair of men’s sunglasses and a police-style baton. A weapon. The bottom dropped out of my stomach and I heard myself gasp quietly. Suddenly, she wasn’t lost anymore, she’d been attacked, taken, maybe even hurt and left to die. As the day progressed, officials came to give us updates and pray, we were moved to a central location, and a few teams of hikers were allowed up the mountainside. The vast majority of the gathered volunteers were left sitting around for hours, which made me angry. I could understand that the search didn’t need to be for more than one person, but I felt that there were more than enough experienced people there to lead a few unexperienced with them. The hours crept by and the news got worse and worse.
No sign of her, but lots of people report seeing her with someone else with a dog. That same someone may have had a baton on his leg. I shed a few fearful tears as the thought that she might have been taken crept in on me. We were all sent home that night, being told that only professionals were allowed back the next day. We got back exhausted and wind-burned, but I was still telling myself she had Ella and she’d be fine. She just fell down a slope and hurt herself, but she was fine. I had to go to a convention the next day, Friday. I worried she’d be found hurt and I wouldn’t be able to see her in the hospital for a week.
The day went by with no news. The man was being looked for, but nothing new had been found. Finally, at the end of the day on Friday, the news announces that Ella wandered into a Kroger alone, 50 miles south of the trails. I worried, but I didn’t want to jump the gun and worry too much because she might still be fine. A hour later, the news announced that her ID and a few other belongings had been found in a dumpster across from that Kroger. Suddenly, it wasn’t about the trails anymore. The awful truth was that she’d been taken. Taken and hurt.. or worse. I sobbed for hours, alone in my hotel room. I was so angry. Angry at the world, angry at that man, and angry at Meredith for going alone.
Police announced later that the man in question had been arrested at a gas station, attempting to clean his van. As I watched the news, photos were shown of Mere’s potential kidnapper. I couldn’t believe she’d been attacked by this man. He looked so frail, like she should have been able to kick his face right in… but where was she? Than the worst news came on… Police had found ‘considerable evidence’ that Meredith was no longer alive. I gaped at the television, tears running down my face, trying to deny it. She hadn’t been found yet, there was still hope she’d been attacked but fought her way free.
Days go by, but I can’t focus on anything. I keep thinking she’s fighting for her life, hidden away somewhere he’d put her. Then, the news I’d denied for so long: her body had been found. I cried again, but I’d been slowly facing the truth for too long. At that moment, I couldn’t think about anything but the things she’d never get to do. She’d ever get married, she’d never be the wonderful mother I knew she’d make someday. She’d never grace my portfolio again, she’d never watch bad TV with Christine and I again. She’ll never go back to France, never write another poem, never read another book, and never hug Ella again.
I’ll miss her so much. I’ll miss her laugh, I’ll miss her smile. I’ll miss the way she used to call Ella ‘Puppers”. I’ll miss her complementing my latest work, I’ll miss her telling me I looked good in this or that outfit. I already miss her zest for life. I just couldn’t smile after she’d been found dead. The world was just gray that day. I’m very thankful that I still have my life and my sister, who is so like her. I couldn’t stop crying at the memorial yesterday. I tried to sing Amazing Grace, but I couldn’t get out anything more than a few squeaks. I gave the photos I’d taken of her in 2006 to her parents because she loved them so much.
Even now, it’s hard to grasp. It’s like any minute now, a news break will come on and tell me that she’s been found alive in the woods somewhere. Or maybe it’s all been a bad dream. Or even that I can time travel and keep her from going at all that day. So many people have been touched by her, even a lot of people who never knew her in life.
We’ll ever get back what he took from us and from her, but we’ll never forget what she gave to all of us.
Interview meme.
1. Leave me a comment saying, “Interview me.”
2. I respond by asking you five personal questions so I can get to know you better ! If I already know you well, expect the questions may be a little more intimate!
3. You WILL update your LJ with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions..
Jesamin asks:
1. How did you and John meet?
John and I met at his fraternity on the campus of Georgia Tech. I was going to college about 3 hours away at the time. I was brough there by a friend of mine who knows that I love weird people. Thise fraternity is FULL of weird people. The first time I ever went there, I walked into the main room and 30 guys were all sitting around giving a point-by-point critique of midget fisting porn. I kid you not. Anyway, my friend took me by to meet all these weirdos and I ended up dating a wonderful guy named David. He was a math geek and I was an art geek. He went away to Texas and we continued to date long-distance. Tima passed and we grew apart and right before he was due to return for RUSH week, I called him and asked him if he still loved me. He said something like “We’re so far apart…” which of course meant no. I cried, but then told myself that I was going to do the worst thing I have ever done to a guy before. I was going to flirt with someone else the whole week just to make him so jealous he’d beg for me back. The guy I picked to use against David was John, mostly because John was HOT. I ended up finding out John and I had a lot in common and we really hit it off. At the end of that week poor abused David wanted me back, but I’d come to realize that John fit me a lot better. I did a lot of crying and a lot of saying “I’m sorry” to David, but I don’t think anything I have ever done in my life has been so mean and shallow.
2. Did you always want to be a photographer? If not, what else did you want to do?
No, actually. When I was very small, I wanted very badly to be a veternarian, a bird vet, specifically. Then I discovered that part of helping sick animals is also putting them out of their miserey when you cannot do anything to heal them. I was probably about 12 at the time, and I could not fathom purposfully hurting an animal, even if it’s hurting so badly it will never get better. I wanted to be a marine biologist for a long time and work at Sea World, but my math skills are awful and I only passed real biology because my teacher felt sorry for me. I then turned to animation. I wanted to animate for Disney for years, even went to college for it. I was pretty good, but I decided I didn’t want to be someone’s underling for 15 years while I worked my way up the ladder. I dropped out of college with 2 years to go, and went back home, broke. On an off-chance I took a job as a pre-k teacher and found that I LOVED it. Every day when I went in 22 4-year-olds tackled me in the classroom. I was very loved. I had to move though, so I decided to get my degree in education. I was nearly done when I got a job in a room full of two-year-olds at a church daycare. It was mostly fun except for the poo, but the worst part was my co-workers. I was the only person there who wasn’t baptist, and I was very much looked down upon. I was also getting sick all the time. I finally got the flu and was out for a week. They pulled some excuse out of thier butts to fire me, and that was that. I wanted to keep working with kids, but Larken told me “You’re just not cut out for a 9-5 job, Heather!” Durring my two’s days, I’d been taking pictures for the parents of the kids, so they could see what we do daily. I’d send them the photos over e-mail, and I got a lot of people saying “Wow, you should be a photographer!”. When I got fired, Larken sat me down and said “Here’s your chance. Go for it.” After a lot of waffleing, I finally did. Bonus: here’s the first photo I ever took in my life. Christmas morning, 1987. I had gotten the camera not 5 minutes before and snapped this photo just as my sister opened up the pair to mine.
3. Why don’t you guys want children? (I’m always curious about what makes people go one way or the other on this topic)
First and foremost, I love children. I love them from the ages of 2 years to about 8 years. After that age, they’re not so nice to be around anymore until they’re 25. I don’t ever want to face an unruly child who’s screaming “I hate you!” and think “God, why the hell did I have this thing?” Second, John really dislikes children of ANY age. We’ve talked about how he reacts to children and just decided that he’d probably make a really negative dad. Third, we are both selfish people. When I was little, my mom dressed me, did my hair, told me what to eat.. etc. My mother was still picking out my clothes until I was 14! When I left and went to college, I was finally able to make my own choices. I worked really hard to become an independant person, and I don’t want to give that up. I want to be able to travel the world at 45 and not have to worry about who will get the kids to school. I don’t want to sit up late at night and wonder if my 13 year old daughter is fucking some 19 year old dropout in a studebaker while high on pot. I don’t want to have the drug talk, the sex talk. No crying at night because she didn’t get asked to the prom. Also, I’ve just plain dealt enough with bodily functions. I don’t want to smell shit everyday for 2-5 years. I don’t want to do 5 loads of vomit covered laundry in a day. I don’t want to clean the inside of the car out and still smell puke a week later because the child got sick on a road-trip. Mostly, it’s just that I don’t want to give up any of the myself I’ve worked so hard to find.
4. How did you meet the Stump?
Stumpy adopted us, actually. We moved into the partment complex in august, and I began seeing a little grey cat with a stump of a tail around. As it got colder, I began leaving food out for it. She would eat and run always, very timid and feral. John and I began to call her Stumpy-cat because of her tail. I’d say “Hey, that Stumpy-cat is back.” Eventually it got shortened to just Stumpy. I began sitting by the door to watch her eat, hoping she’d eventually let me pet on her, because I adore cats. One night, she came to the bowl like always but just seemed disinterested int he food, talking at me though the glass instead (she’s very talkative). I stood up and creeped slowely out the door trying not to scare her off. She stuck around, but was scared. I sat down on the cold ground and she immediatly lept into my arms and began purring like a motorboat. I mean, this cat can be heard in other ooms when she gets going. I called John in to see and he was like “Uh.. yeah. That’s nice dear.” I knew she couldn’t stay, but she was very interested in the inside of the apartment. I came back in with tears in my eyes because I wanted to let her in so badly. John looked at me and was like “Okay, fine. Let her in!” She came in, sat down on his lap, and refused to leave. She had a bad hait of meowing at night loudly, so for months we threw her out the door every night and let her back in everyday. One week in feb, it iced badly here and I bought her a litterbox so she didn’t have to stay out in the ice. I stayed up with her all night and kept her quient so John could sleep. She refused to go ever again. Now, she sleeps on the bed with us at night and is hardly ever loud enough to wake us. She still talks ALL the time though.
5. When you were growing up, what was your favorite bedroom? Bonus if you have pictures. (even if you only ever lived in one place, what color was it when it was your favorite, etc etc)
My favorite was the room I grew up in, in Ohio. My mother and father built the house and when the time came to put up wallpaper, she asked us to pick out the border that was to go around the top of the room (probably the only thing in my young life I’d gotten to chose on my own). I already loved birds at this point, so I chose a border full of parrots of all types. Cockatoos, Amazons, Toucans, Mynahs, Parakeets, Cockatiels.. everything was up there. I would lay on my bed for hours and look at the bird border in my room and dream about having birds like that. It was also that room that housed my very first bird, Max. He was a bright yellow-faced cockatiel. He loved to whistle at me and sing. We would sit for hours and read together. All of my books had bird bited in them, and I had bird shit on my shoulders for years (because small birds don’t have bowel control). That room is special because it held the most precious things to me. My bird, and my dreams of other birds.
Bonus: Here are photos of the room.
Imagine a bored photographer gets called gorgeous by one of her LJ freinds. What happens when that same bored photographer finds some petticoats in her closet?
I finally got my hair cut yesterday by this wonderful woman who was able to get my hair to do anything I wanted. I wanted it layerd, and she not only cut it, but showed me how to style it in a few different ways. It rocked. I might even have a new photo client in her as well, as she’s got a two-year old son. Gave her my card, will take her my portfollio tomorrow.. we’ll see what comes of it. So, now that I’m not a redhead anymore, here’s a photo. Pre-cut and post-cut. Still getting used to the brown, through. I miss my red hair. Brown isn’t unique. Everyone has brown hair.
Warning: PMS induced rant. Normall I can keep this crap all under wraps, but tonight I’m just feeling frustrated and frumpy.
I’m 27 years old. Three years shy of 30, and I still get people telling me I look 19. Honestly. For most women, this would be a blessing. For me.. I look in the mirror sometimes and I see a kid. The same kid I was a decade ago. I many ways, I am. I still act like one in many ways (good ways, like loving life)… but I still look the same as I did back then. Same center part, same baby-fine hair that I can’t do anything with. I was out catching frogs and falling in mud holes as a kid, not learning how to do neat and pretty things with my hair. I keep seeing high school girls with a more mature look than me!
Normally, I don’t give a flip about how I look. Oh, I worry if I have a giant zit on my nose or if my shirt’s on inside-out, but otherwise I don’t spend more than 5 minutes in the morning to brush my teeth and run a brush through my hair. I spend more time thinking my breath smells than about how my hair looks. Lately though, I just keep thinking I look like I’m 17. This worries me a bit when it comes to this ‘new job’. If I don’t look professional and mature, no one will take me seriously enough to hire me. Is it really an issue or is it just me worrying that I’m turning into a frumpy house girlfriend? And if it IS an issue, how does one change 27 years of tomboy into a career woman?
I saw a woman at the playground the other day while I was there with Muchie’s friend. She was asian (of course, all asian women are stunning anyway) and had this stunning hair and clothes. Her hair was cut to part on the side and sweep across her forehead and curl in layers to her shoulders. It looked like it stayed there effortlessly, who thehell knows how she did that. Plus she’s wearing black slacks, black heels (on a playground!) and a black top with some white lace in vertical stripes. The whole thing was young and still very professional. I mean, next to her I looked like a high-school kid waiting for her dad to pick her up in the minivan.
This all comes to head in the middle of a long week of no work. I have no shoot lined up for this weekend, no photos that are waiting for me to edit. I have nothing to DO durring the day and so I can’t sleep at night.. which is why I’m now up at 2am. I have no shoots lined up at all, actually. No end to the monotony that is siting at home all day. This really worries me. Now that I’ve done photos for friends last month, none of them will need anything this month. I’ve got no upcoming prospects unless someone e-mails me out of the blue. Not a day goes by that I don’t think to myself “What the hell are you doing? Get out while you still can!” or “What made you think YOU could make this work?”
I can’t draw when I’m stressed, nor can I write. I never have been able to. I haven’t been this stressed in years. Since high-school, probably. I’ve put on 10 pounds. It looks nice on me and I’m glad to have it, but I know it’s all stress-related. I’ve put so much work into this, and I feel like it’s just not.. ‘happening’ fast enough. Logically, I know that everyone in the city won’t be beating down my door just because I declared I’m now a ‘pro’. But.. I still feel like some of my hard work should be paying off. I just want to be out there, taking pictures. I don’t have anyone to attack with the camera though, and the normal ways I get rid of pent-up frustrated energy just aren’t working.
I’ll turn 27 at about 8:30 pm EST this evening. Not much is going on today though. S is coming up on Monday to watch terrible silent movies from the 1920’s with us. There will be a little booze, but not much because booze makes loud and loud wakes the baby in the house. On saturday the 5th, John’s driving me down into Atlanta to meet up with my mom so she can pick up her wedding dress. It’s done being altered.
I had a ‘dress-up’ photodate with Olivia yesterday afternoon. Unfortunantly, it was about 95 degrees out with no shade, making everyone miserable. I was sweating everywhere.. I think I even got a little bit of a sunburn. I’ll have to remember to put a brush in my ‘props’ box when I make one.
My birthday is in two weeks! It snuck up on me this year, because I’ve been worrying so much about photo stuff. Anyway, to appease my mother (and anyone else who cares), here are my wishlists. Due to my recent photography choices, the camera gear wishlist has been added to and prioritized.
Camera Gear and Books
CD’s Books, Extras
Movies
Hummingbird stuff
This entire week, I’ve been agonizing over a long-awaited life path change. Do I chuck the teacher career and go for portrait photography or stick with teaching because it’s safe? There are pros and cons to both, but Larken made three of the best points in favor of changing to photography. She said, “I think you’re too unstructured for the regular 9-5 job. Plus, you’re sick ALL the time!” and then she played to my ego with “You’ve got so much talent it’d be a shame to not do photography.” While I was at the gynecologist on Wednesday, the doctor I was seeing asked me what I did and I told her “‘portrait photographer’ because it sounded better than ‘unemployed daycare teacher’. She then immediatly told me that she wanted photos of her two-year old daughter, Emma and asked me for a business card. I had to tell her that I didn’t have any cards or a website up yet, but that I’d leave my e-mail with her and she could e-mail me with questions.
Later that night as I was thinking about it, I came to the unpleasant conclusion that more thinking isn’t going to get me anywhere and if I’m going to do anything I need to get off my ass and just make the choice. So I did. I’m going to go for portrait photography. Thank you Larken and John. 
Now, to go about getting it done.
This is my battle plan for now:
1. Come up with names.
2. Buy a new domain for the website
3. Install PixelPost to power the website.
4. Split the website into two parts: family and not-so-family oriented.
5. Set prices and print package prices.
6. Have two sets of business cards made to cater to two seperate crowds.
7. Have two sets of brochures made.
So far, the name has been the hardest part. I have a few freinds *coughAtariandTimcough* who work int he graphics industry and can do cards and brochures for me. I can do the webpage on my own, but the names are killing me. The problem that I’m facing is that I am unmarried. If I use my first and last name, that’s what will become known. When John and I eventually get married, I’ll be changing my last name to his and I’ll have to go back and re-do all of my contacts and cards and brocures.. etc. The best I came up with was ‘Elle photography’, elle sounding like the letter L, which is what both of our last names begin with. Larken came up with ‘Heather in the field’ (punny, but I like it) or ‘Nightingale Photography’ and ‘Nightingale Nights’ for the not-so-family (boudior) oriented site. I love the ___ Nights part, but I’m not really fond of Nightingales. Suggestions anyone?
I went to public school all of my life except for one year. Eighth grade. We moved into a huge old house we got for cheap because it was in various states of disrepair. It was on the other side of town from my old school, so we went to new ones.Mom hated the public school there, so she sent me to John XXIII Catholic school (yeah, I was a catholic schoolgirl) for a year. As per normal, I was the outcast there. I wore glasses, I wasn’t raised with them. I wore shorts under my skirt because the boys had a habit of flipping up unwary hems as the wearer walked past. Most of all, I wasn’t catholic. Despite this, I loved my time there, mostly because of just one person. Sarah Taylor. You couldn’t pick two people more different, but she and I latched onto each other like we’d been friends all of our lives. We looked different, we talked different, came from different backgrounds, and yet that one year of school was better than any before or since because of her.
Sarah and I were joined at the hip for most of the year. We even once made a vow to each other to tell each other about our first times (sex, people) before we told anyone else. We played pranks on eatch other, and even on her poor mother (who was deathly afraid of snakes). We hung out with a few other people the majority for that time too. Tara Cain was another good friend who was sort-of dating a guy named Adam. Sarah was sort-of dating a guy named Jason, and I was sort-of dating a guy named Chris Sauter. It was a big happy group. I can’t even remember when or how I met all of these people, but it was a great year. At the end of that year, my family moved to Georgia despite my tears and promises to run away. I kept in touch with Sarah and Chris for a while, but both will tell you how awful of a letter writer I am. Chris and I carried on a somewhat long distance relationship for a while, but when you’re 14, distance is a killer. I lost touch with both of them over the years. Sarah found me about 6 years ago, and again, I lost touch somehow.
I found her again thanks to (lame) classmates.com. I jumped on after a year of not being on and found her. She’s gotten married and changed her last name. She’s even had a baby! After doing a little research on her with her new last name, I found her phone number and gave her a call two days ago. I got the machine the first time I called, and attempted ot leave a message, but the machine cut me off, so i called back. Sarah: Hello? Me: “Is this Sarah Taylor?” Sarah: “I was…” Me: “This is Heather Lickliter…” Sarah: “OH MY GOD!!!!” There was much hooting and hollering on both ends of the line, and I chatted with her for about an hour. She’s married to a great guy named Steve and after 5 years of trying they just had their first child Roger about 6 months ago. Durring that chat, a bit of her younger self came through, and I realized that she’s just as weird now as she was then. Me too, for that matter. John’s as weird as me, so i wonder if Steve is (or knows) as weird as she is. She told me that Chris is married and living in Phoenix, AZ with his wife and twin daughters, and I found his phone number too. I haven’t called him, and I’m not sure I will. It might be a little too weird hearing from your eight grade pseudo-girlfriend with your family around you. I’ll have to ask Sarah what she thinks, since she’s the one who has kept up with him.
