Zach was still babyish, with soft blonde curls and rubber band wrists, that delicious phenomenon that occurs when a baby is so chubby, it looks like a rubber band is constricting the wrist joint, causing the baby fat to rise up on either side of the deep crevasse. He had a soft moon face, said only a few words and smiled with 4 teeth. Temper tantrums were still a few months away. One foot tentatively reached for toddlerhood, one was still dragging behind in infancy.
Up until this day, Zach had been known to push a big plastic bus around the kitchen as he crawled next to it. He had practiced walking behind a pushcart. But, none of these wheeled inventions held his fascination quite like the little red car that was about to enter his life. Steve had gotten home from work and absentmindedly pulled a plain red matchbox car out of his pocket. A co-worker had discovered the car in his box of Cheerios that morning as some promotional gimmick. He thought our little boy might like it.
Commence car obsession. When Steve handed the car to Zach, sitting happily in his booster seat at the kitchen table, Zach stopped and starred at it in amazement. All was forgotten as he rolled it on the table in front of him, then on the floor with his head on the ground, watching it cruise across the vinyl floor. From that day on, he always had a car in each hand, in his bed, in his car seat. They helped him feel better when he was sick or anxious. They provided hours of entertainment. He loved his cars so much that he only trusted me to take care of them when he was occupied with other pressing matters. Not even his grandma was worthy of being a car caretaker.
Today Zach is 8 years old and is still going strong in his love affair with cars. There are days I’d like to find the coworker who so thoughtfully gave Zach the little red car years ago and punch him in the gut. How would he like to have about 4,000 drawings of cars, books about cars, car racing games, and endless conversations that stop only after I announce that I refuse to discuss cars any farther? But I know that Zach would have found his way to cars without this co-worker’s assistance. A love this strong would defy all odds to succeed.
All I can say is that this fascination better pay off. After enduring “all things car”, Zach better grow up to be an amazing car engineer or designer, make millions and take care of me in my old age. I deserve it after years of loyal service to his fleet of matchbox cars.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Monday, May 30, 2011
Write The First Time
The first time I saw a fairy I was 11 years old. It was the afternoon of my birthday and I was hiding under the willow tree. I don't remember why I was hiding. Probably I was trying to avoid my older brothers. But I know it was my birthday because I was wearing the fairy crown that my grandmother had sent me. It was a golden circlet studded with bright shiny jewels and a rainbow of ribbons that trailed behind me when I ran. It matched the fairy wings my father had given me perfectly. I suppose they had planned the gift but at the time, I marveled in amazement at the fact that the wings and crown seemed to magically belong together. There was also a wand but one of my brothers had snapped it in half when my father wasn't looking. Perhaps that was what sent me running to the safety of the willow tree. The exact events leading up to my first fairy sighting are a bit hazy, but I remember peering out from beneath the blowing leaves toward my house and wishing with all my heart to never be found again. But my wishing was interrupted by a tugging at my crown. I thought one of the ribbons had tangled in the tree limbs and absentmindedly reached behind me to try and tug it free. I gave a good pull. Imagine my surprise when my ribbon pulled back!
I suppose I should take a moment and set things straight. You have probably seen pictures of fairies, right? Small, dainty creatures with gossamer wings and pointed ears that flutter about in puffs of golden sparkles. Well, let me tell you, that is a total lie. I know. When my ribbon refused to untangle, I turned about and came face to face with my very first fairy.
It was awful.
First, they are excessively large. Not as big as an 11 year old girl but pretty close. Second, they have never used a hairbrush or had their hair trimmed during the entirety of their very long lives. I suppose fairies may have golden hair like spun silk if they every bothered to wash it but they never do. Instead, their hair is a snarl of tangles and twigs and goodness knows what else all mashed into one. And they smell! Nothing bad mind you. No, they smell of an earthy nature which, I suppose, makes a certain sense. This one had the overpowering odor of eucalyptus leaves. It was enough to make my eyes water. Her clothing was rather fairy-ish. It was a mottled green and brown that would blend in easily in dappled sunlight or fallen leaves. But it was her face that grabbed my attention. High cheek bones, a long arched nose, and eyes that were violet. A deep glowing violet like the color of Welches grape juice. They were narrow and tilted and determined. Her grubby hands had hold of my rainbow ribbons and she was doing her best to unseat my crown. The shock of seeing her had rendered me frozen and she had taken advantage of my shock to drag it from my head. With a final tug, my present landed in her lap and her face broke into a broad grin revealing a mouth full of small round teeth. I realized then that she was going to take my new fairy crown, the crown I had been given only an hour ago, and a sudden burst of anger propelled me to action.
"Oh no you don't!" I shouted and lunged toward her. With a grunt, I grabbed the crown and pulled it toward me. The fairy let out a cry of dismay and a serious tug of war began. I was larger and stronger but her wings where real. Oh yes, she had wings. They began to flutter as we struggled and the wind churned up a nice cloud of dust and fallen leaves around us. She even began to rise off the ground, trying to carry my crown up and away with her. I think she might have succeeded if not for my brother.
"Lucy! Where are you?" I heard Peter calling from the deck. "Dad says we have to say sorry for your stupid fake wand. So get over here you little twerp!" Peter's voice was getting louder. He was heading our way.
"I can see you under the tree Lu," Peter yelled. His feet strode closer as we continued our silent struggle.
"Come on out," Peter demanded, standing right in front of me. "I'm sorry about your dorky old wand. Ollie is gluing it up for you and it'll good as new. I promise. Just come out from there, ok?"
I saw my brother bend down on one knee and reach to part the tree branches. The fairy gave one final tug at my crown and then let go with a puff and vanished. Into thin air.
I suppose I should take a moment and set things straight. You have probably seen pictures of fairies, right? Small, dainty creatures with gossamer wings and pointed ears that flutter about in puffs of golden sparkles. Well, let me tell you, that is a total lie. I know. When my ribbon refused to untangle, I turned about and came face to face with my very first fairy.
It was awful.
First, they are excessively large. Not as big as an 11 year old girl but pretty close. Second, they have never used a hairbrush or had their hair trimmed during the entirety of their very long lives. I suppose fairies may have golden hair like spun silk if they every bothered to wash it but they never do. Instead, their hair is a snarl of tangles and twigs and goodness knows what else all mashed into one. And they smell! Nothing bad mind you. No, they smell of an earthy nature which, I suppose, makes a certain sense. This one had the overpowering odor of eucalyptus leaves. It was enough to make my eyes water. Her clothing was rather fairy-ish. It was a mottled green and brown that would blend in easily in dappled sunlight or fallen leaves. But it was her face that grabbed my attention. High cheek bones, a long arched nose, and eyes that were violet. A deep glowing violet like the color of Welches grape juice. They were narrow and tilted and determined. Her grubby hands had hold of my rainbow ribbons and she was doing her best to unseat my crown. The shock of seeing her had rendered me frozen and she had taken advantage of my shock to drag it from my head. With a final tug, my present landed in her lap and her face broke into a broad grin revealing a mouth full of small round teeth. I realized then that she was going to take my new fairy crown, the crown I had been given only an hour ago, and a sudden burst of anger propelled me to action.
"Oh no you don't!" I shouted and lunged toward her. With a grunt, I grabbed the crown and pulled it toward me. The fairy let out a cry of dismay and a serious tug of war began. I was larger and stronger but her wings where real. Oh yes, she had wings. They began to flutter as we struggled and the wind churned up a nice cloud of dust and fallen leaves around us. She even began to rise off the ground, trying to carry my crown up and away with her. I think she might have succeeded if not for my brother.
"Lucy! Where are you?" I heard Peter calling from the deck. "Dad says we have to say sorry for your stupid fake wand. So get over here you little twerp!" Peter's voice was getting louder. He was heading our way.
"I can see you under the tree Lu," Peter yelled. His feet strode closer as we continued our silent struggle.
"Come on out," Peter demanded, standing right in front of me. "I'm sorry about your dorky old wand. Ollie is gluing it up for you and it'll good as new. I promise. Just come out from there, ok?"
I saw my brother bend down on one knee and reach to part the tree branches. The fairy gave one final tug at my crown and then let go with a puff and vanished. Into thin air.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
"That night I was happy"
“It has been a long uphill haul, this path that grief set me on. I was laid out by life’s hideousness that night. One moment I was puttering around my parents’ 70’s era kitchen, complete with yellow appliances and dark dated wood. It had been the scene of many family cooking matches and leisurely meals, as well as some harried ones. It was a place of comfort and family bonds. The next moment, there was a knock on the door, and hell entered in the form of a subdued policeman asking me to get my parents.
I knew, as we all do, why he was there. I barely remember the rest of the evening. I don’t recall knocking on my parents’ bedroom door, and I’ve tried to repress their hysterical sobbing, the officer’s softly spoken condolences.
My sister was killed over spring break in a car accident. Her boyfriend simply took a turn too fast, missed the curve and hit a tree. They say she died instantly. Her boyfriend never heard a noise from her after a loud gasp right before impact. I was the older sister by two years; her protector and mentor as she set off for college at U of O, following in my footsteps. She was the social butterfly of the family where I am more introverted and studious. I love music and play the violin and piano. She loved kids and wanted to be a middle school social studies teacher. We were different but I think that helped us be close. We didn’t feel the need to compete with each other because we each had our own niche. We just complemented each other.
I wonder what she would have done if the reverse happened. If I had died suddenly, she would have turned to others. She always had a great network of friends and admirers. They would have been her support. I, on the other hand, turned inward. Maybe it is the way of artists, writers, musicians. I poured myself into music. I wrote musical poetry of my sister, her vivaciousness, her compassion, the deep hole her death created. I stayed up late into the night composing, not resting until I got a run of notes just right. Then I would collapse into bed, completely drained.
I meant to keep my sister’s music private. It would be just for the two of us because when I played it, I felt her there with me. The feeling was so strong that I didn’t want the music to end. I would lose her over and over again. But, Professor Scott overheard me playing a piece on my violin and convinced me music that moving, played with so much emotion, needed to be heard by a larger audience.
In the end, I decided the best way to honor my sister would be to play her music for others, to give them a glimpse of this amazing person taken too early. And so one evening in November, just 8 months after she died, I poured out my soul, my hands on the violin. I forgot about the audience. I was totally enveloped in the music. She was there on the stage with me beaming as my hands flew up and down the strings. She was beside me as I received thunderous applause. She was there and that night, I was happy.”
I knew, as we all do, why he was there. I barely remember the rest of the evening. I don’t recall knocking on my parents’ bedroom door, and I’ve tried to repress their hysterical sobbing, the officer’s softly spoken condolences.
My sister was killed over spring break in a car accident. Her boyfriend simply took a turn too fast, missed the curve and hit a tree. They say she died instantly. Her boyfriend never heard a noise from her after a loud gasp right before impact. I was the older sister by two years; her protector and mentor as she set off for college at U of O, following in my footsteps. She was the social butterfly of the family where I am more introverted and studious. I love music and play the violin and piano. She loved kids and wanted to be a middle school social studies teacher. We were different but I think that helped us be close. We didn’t feel the need to compete with each other because we each had our own niche. We just complemented each other.
I wonder what she would have done if the reverse happened. If I had died suddenly, she would have turned to others. She always had a great network of friends and admirers. They would have been her support. I, on the other hand, turned inward. Maybe it is the way of artists, writers, musicians. I poured myself into music. I wrote musical poetry of my sister, her vivaciousness, her compassion, the deep hole her death created. I stayed up late into the night composing, not resting until I got a run of notes just right. Then I would collapse into bed, completely drained.
I meant to keep my sister’s music private. It would be just for the two of us because when I played it, I felt her there with me. The feeling was so strong that I didn’t want the music to end. I would lose her over and over again. But, Professor Scott overheard me playing a piece on my violin and convinced me music that moving, played with so much emotion, needed to be heard by a larger audience.
In the end, I decided the best way to honor my sister would be to play her music for others, to give them a glimpse of this amazing person taken too early. And so one evening in November, just 8 months after she died, I poured out my soul, my hands on the violin. I forgot about the audience. I was totally enveloped in the music. She was there on the stage with me beaming as my hands flew up and down the strings. She was beside me as I received thunderous applause. She was there and that night, I was happy.”
Friday, May 27, 2011
Nothing Can Be Heard
Nothing can be heard if you refuse to listen. The whispers of doubt had been trying to catch my attention for days earlier but I turned a deaf ear to their pleas. The inconsistencies that lay scattered throughout my office had tried to catch my eye but I pretended not to see. I wanted to believe he was innocent but the truth lay, no longer beneath the surface, but fully exposed for anyone to see on the front page of the Oregonian. If only I had looked. If only I had listened.
John Timley had walked into my office three weeks ago. He claimed to know Ross, who I had just spend three years training with, and had a very convincing story about trying to locate a long lost cousin. It seemed simple enough, and he didn't blink an eye when I quoted him my hourly rate. I figured all I needed to do was run her name through a few databases and it'd be an easy $300 bucks. Standard PI stuff I could run from behind my desk. My recollection is tainted by what happened but I don't think I suspected anything that first interview. I know I didn't double check with Ross which was pure laziness on my part. Stupid really, and lazy. I'd pay for that later. But in my defense, there really weren't any red flags going off in my mind so I took her name and his info and promised to be in touch.
Finding her wasn't easy. That was probably the first whisper of unease ignored. Portland is a small town and there are are so many ways people get tagged. Car registrations are the easy ones to search but there are also boat regs and hunting licenses. Add to that liens and mortgages, business licenses, even web site URLs and you can usually get a hit somewhere. But this cousin was seriously well hidden. I had to meet John twice more and ask for more on her before I managed to locate her. Each time, he was charming and concerned. Ross always teased that I was a sucker for a sob story and I guess he was right. John spun a very convincing yarn about meeting Danielle one summer at a family gathering but then losing touch as time passed. He said his dad had recently died and that got him thinking about losing family. He claimed he wanted to surprise her after all these years. He stressed the surprise element and asked that I not tip her off to the fact that someone was looking for her. Yeah, I know. Those whispers were getting much louder. Maybe it's because I lost my own parents when I was young and liked the idea that there was some family out there searching for me. Or maybe I'm just a sucker at heart. Whatever it was, I unearthed Jessica McGowan from where she had buried herself and handed her right over to John.
I read about her body being found three days later and knew I was in trouble. I'm still trying to dig myself out of this whole mess but this is how it went down.
John Timley had walked into my office three weeks ago. He claimed to know Ross, who I had just spend three years training with, and had a very convincing story about trying to locate a long lost cousin. It seemed simple enough, and he didn't blink an eye when I quoted him my hourly rate. I figured all I needed to do was run her name through a few databases and it'd be an easy $300 bucks. Standard PI stuff I could run from behind my desk. My recollection is tainted by what happened but I don't think I suspected anything that first interview. I know I didn't double check with Ross which was pure laziness on my part. Stupid really, and lazy. I'd pay for that later. But in my defense, there really weren't any red flags going off in my mind so I took her name and his info and promised to be in touch.
Finding her wasn't easy. That was probably the first whisper of unease ignored. Portland is a small town and there are are so many ways people get tagged. Car registrations are the easy ones to search but there are also boat regs and hunting licenses. Add to that liens and mortgages, business licenses, even web site URLs and you can usually get a hit somewhere. But this cousin was seriously well hidden. I had to meet John twice more and ask for more on her before I managed to locate her. Each time, he was charming and concerned. Ross always teased that I was a sucker for a sob story and I guess he was right. John spun a very convincing yarn about meeting Danielle one summer at a family gathering but then losing touch as time passed. He said his dad had recently died and that got him thinking about losing family. He claimed he wanted to surprise her after all these years. He stressed the surprise element and asked that I not tip her off to the fact that someone was looking for her. Yeah, I know. Those whispers were getting much louder. Maybe it's because I lost my own parents when I was young and liked the idea that there was some family out there searching for me. Or maybe I'm just a sucker at heart. Whatever it was, I unearthed Jessica McGowan from where she had buried herself and handed her right over to John.
I read about her body being found three days later and knew I was in trouble. I'm still trying to dig myself out of this whole mess but this is how it went down.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Write about a sleeping child
I creep into your room and peek at you.
You are illuminated by a teddy bear night light; stuffed animal friends stare back at me with quizzical faces.
I lean in and deeply inhale, smelling a mixture of sweet baby breath and gentle soap from your evening bath; a bath that washed away the orneriness of the day. Tantrums rinsed off, tears erased, toddler messes wiped clean
They are a distant past as I admire your pale cheeks in profile, half moons of unblemished flesh, kissed by long delicate lashes, your little rosebud mouth slightly ajar
You are trusting and vulnerable, breathing softly near my ear.
I feel a surge of protectiveness wash over me and I ache at the thought of someone hurting you, crushing your spirit.
I hover by your bed, whispering a prayer to keep you safe and content as I stroke back your blonde feathers of hair and kiss your forehead, still spongy with baby fat.
I am at peace knowing you are safely tucked in, one room away.
Tomorrow will bring more toddler trials. I bid you goodnight, knowing I will need my rest to persevere.
You are illuminated by a teddy bear night light; stuffed animal friends stare back at me with quizzical faces.
I lean in and deeply inhale, smelling a mixture of sweet baby breath and gentle soap from your evening bath; a bath that washed away the orneriness of the day. Tantrums rinsed off, tears erased, toddler messes wiped clean
They are a distant past as I admire your pale cheeks in profile, half moons of unblemished flesh, kissed by long delicate lashes, your little rosebud mouth slightly ajar
You are trusting and vulnerable, breathing softly near my ear.
I feel a surge of protectiveness wash over me and I ache at the thought of someone hurting you, crushing your spirit.
I hover by your bed, whispering a prayer to keep you safe and content as I stroke back your blonde feathers of hair and kiss your forehead, still spongy with baby fat.
I am at peace knowing you are safely tucked in, one room away.
Tomorrow will bring more toddler trials. I bid you goodnight, knowing I will need my rest to persevere.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Write About A Lightening Stike
The old oak tree had been hit by lightening once. Must have been quite a strike because the trunk was split almost in two. The right side was charred and withered. Most of the branches had snapped off over the years leaving mostly trunk behind. But somehow, the left half of the tree had flourished. I loved to sketch that tree when I was young. On good days, I would draw it whole. Working from the left, I'd fill in the missing branches, paint leaves and birds and sunshine. But some days my sketch book would be filled with that old oak withered and blackened like my mood. A tree out of Halloween stories and nightmares. Dark and ominous.
My momma always said that tree was cursed. Cursed to be hit by lightening like that. But I always thought that tree was blessed. To survive such a beating and come back strong, why that is a miracle all it's own. So now, as I hold my daughter under this tree, I tell myself I can do it to. The lightening that has struck me dug deep but my roots hold me. I can still recover. I can and will go on. I just wish momma was here. This baby has tired me out something awful. I can hear momma telling me to "get to getting" and that make me smile.She never was one to sit about and mourn sour grapes. With her in my mind, I hitch my girl higher on my hip and walk down the hill to our home. I can tell when I pass out of the shade of the lightening tree. I can feel the sun on the back of my neck and the heat of it building in my hair. That old lightening tree has given me a moments rest but now the day lays before me long and full. Maybe tonight, after baby has settled, I'll get a chance to come back here and watch the bats circle the moon but there's plenty between then and now. I'd best get to getting.
My momma always said that tree was cursed. Cursed to be hit by lightening like that. But I always thought that tree was blessed. To survive such a beating and come back strong, why that is a miracle all it's own. So now, as I hold my daughter under this tree, I tell myself I can do it to. The lightening that has struck me dug deep but my roots hold me. I can still recover. I can and will go on. I just wish momma was here. This baby has tired me out something awful. I can hear momma telling me to "get to getting" and that make me smile.She never was one to sit about and mourn sour grapes. With her in my mind, I hitch my girl higher on my hip and walk down the hill to our home. I can tell when I pass out of the shade of the lightening tree. I can feel the sun on the back of my neck and the heat of it building in my hair. That old lightening tree has given me a moments rest but now the day lays before me long and full. Maybe tonight, after baby has settled, I'll get a chance to come back here and watch the bats circle the moon but there's plenty between then and now. I'd best get to getting.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
It shimmers in the distance
The golf course was a magnificent jewel in the early January sun. Blue water sparkled, palm trees rustled, bright colored annuals clustered cheerfully by the paths to the first 9 holes. Beyond the clubhouse, I took a right and kept walking. The winter sun was on my back and the day was slowly warming up. It was still too chilly for the rattlers to awaken from their cold weather slumber, but they would soon, perhaps in 6 weeks or so. And then, you wouldn’t catch me on this path. This area was not as meticulously maintained as the paths the golfers used. The walkway I occupied was usually reserved for the service staff. Vegetation was low, natural desert brush, too close to the pathway to offer security against ill tempered snakes as they first emerge from hibernation.
Today, I was safe from critters and in the mood to be left alone. The service path led to quiet, open spaces beyond the maintenance sheds, good for trysts or just thinking, depending on your needs. I walked slowly, savoring the peace, honing in on the chatter and songs of tropical birds escaping winter in the north. After a late morning of fulfilling lunch and drink orders from presumptuous, arrogant and over fed men, nature dished me up just what my soul needed.
I stopped at a wide junction at the path to admire the sun beaming on the Santa Ritas. Later, they would be pink with the setting sun. Now, they were clearly illuminated, so I could see the tree line beginning where the altitude beat out the desert heat and allowed for greener foliage.
I took a deep breath and stretched out the crick in my neck. As I did, something shiny caught my eye. It seemed to wave at me from the dusty desert floor. Curious, I walked over to investigate and felt the bottom of my stomach drop. It was a ring, white gold with three little diamonds. I knew it well because my grandparents had given it to me on my 16th birthday. I lost it the night I was at this very spot with my then boyfriend, Glen. Last December, Glen and I had been at a party given by the club for its staff. Glen had always been moody and mysterious, but the combination of a bad mood and too much bourbon had caused a volcano to erupt. He wouldn’t leave the party, no matter how much I begged to take him home. He had stormed out, down this service path with me following, afraid he would be swallowed up by the desert darkness if I didn’t intervene. What I got for that heroic deed was a shove to the ground so hard that my ring flew off my finger. Then he kicked me as I groveled in the night, trying to find it.
I lost many things that night: a trinket given to me out of love, a sense of security and worth, and a naïve certainty that violence would never touch me.
I never saw Glen again. He didn’t show up at work. Out of shame for how he treated me or just pure embarrassment, I couldn’t say. But I felt like fate or the heavens had given me a gift today. Something led me to discover good in the place where bad happened. Something waited patiently for me to revisit this place. And when I did, it rewarded me with a little hope in the form of a ring.
Today, I was safe from critters and in the mood to be left alone. The service path led to quiet, open spaces beyond the maintenance sheds, good for trysts or just thinking, depending on your needs. I walked slowly, savoring the peace, honing in on the chatter and songs of tropical birds escaping winter in the north. After a late morning of fulfilling lunch and drink orders from presumptuous, arrogant and over fed men, nature dished me up just what my soul needed.
I stopped at a wide junction at the path to admire the sun beaming on the Santa Ritas. Later, they would be pink with the setting sun. Now, they were clearly illuminated, so I could see the tree line beginning where the altitude beat out the desert heat and allowed for greener foliage.
I took a deep breath and stretched out the crick in my neck. As I did, something shiny caught my eye. It seemed to wave at me from the dusty desert floor. Curious, I walked over to investigate and felt the bottom of my stomach drop. It was a ring, white gold with three little diamonds. I knew it well because my grandparents had given it to me on my 16th birthday. I lost it the night I was at this very spot with my then boyfriend, Glen. Last December, Glen and I had been at a party given by the club for its staff. Glen had always been moody and mysterious, but the combination of a bad mood and too much bourbon had caused a volcano to erupt. He wouldn’t leave the party, no matter how much I begged to take him home. He had stormed out, down this service path with me following, afraid he would be swallowed up by the desert darkness if I didn’t intervene. What I got for that heroic deed was a shove to the ground so hard that my ring flew off my finger. Then he kicked me as I groveled in the night, trying to find it.
I lost many things that night: a trinket given to me out of love, a sense of security and worth, and a naïve certainty that violence would never touch me.
I never saw Glen again. He didn’t show up at work. Out of shame for how he treated me or just pure embarrassment, I couldn’t say. But I felt like fate or the heavens had given me a gift today. Something led me to discover good in the place where bad happened. Something waited patiently for me to revisit this place. And when I did, it rewarded me with a little hope in the form of a ring.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
What Made You Cry
I didn't cry when my daughter was born. Not during her delivery or when they placed her on my chest for the first time, all fingers and toes and silky black hair. But three weeks later, I was hysterical with tears.
I had spent weeks preparing for delivery. Attending birthing class, learning my breathing, burning the delivery CD music and finalizing the phone tree for the big moment. I knew all about the possible complications, I had toured my delivery room and had packed all the needed items like slippers and lotion and crossword puzzles. So when the moment came, I was beyond prepared. But then? Then they handed me this tiny, fragile new life and walked away. Other mothers needed their attention now. I was left alone with this baby. Totally alone.
Three weeks later, the tears would not cease. There were no classes for me to take on newborn care. Nothing to prepare me for the constant crying, the torturous level of sleep deprivation, the horror of nursing, and the silent specter of depression that stalked me like a ghost through my ravaged house. And the stakes were so high. I was playing with a life. A life that depended utterly on me. A life that I was totally unprepared to sustain.
And I sat on the sofa, day after day, wearing the same rank night shirt, frantically rocking that little life. And I began to cry. I began to rant. I began a conversation that was one side screams and wails of a colicky baby and the other my blubbering apologies and snotty pleas. To please eat. To please sleep. To please. Stop. Crying.
And somewhere in that conversation made of screams and tears and desperation, I looked down and found my daughter looking up at me and smiling. Her first smile. I laughed. And I cried. And I smiled back at her. It wasn't until many weeks later that I would know it would be ok. But I think it was that moment that it was.
I had spent weeks preparing for delivery. Attending birthing class, learning my breathing, burning the delivery CD music and finalizing the phone tree for the big moment. I knew all about the possible complications, I had toured my delivery room and had packed all the needed items like slippers and lotion and crossword puzzles. So when the moment came, I was beyond prepared. But then? Then they handed me this tiny, fragile new life and walked away. Other mothers needed their attention now. I was left alone with this baby. Totally alone.
Three weeks later, the tears would not cease. There were no classes for me to take on newborn care. Nothing to prepare me for the constant crying, the torturous level of sleep deprivation, the horror of nursing, and the silent specter of depression that stalked me like a ghost through my ravaged house. And the stakes were so high. I was playing with a life. A life that depended utterly on me. A life that I was totally unprepared to sustain.
And I sat on the sofa, day after day, wearing the same rank night shirt, frantically rocking that little life. And I began to cry. I began to rant. I began a conversation that was one side screams and wails of a colicky baby and the other my blubbering apologies and snotty pleas. To please eat. To please sleep. To please. Stop. Crying.
And somewhere in that conversation made of screams and tears and desperation, I looked down and found my daughter looking up at me and smiling. Her first smile. I laughed. And I cried. And I smiled back at her. It wasn't until many weeks later that I would know it would be ok. But I think it was that moment that it was.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
What waits at the top of the stairs.......
Sitting in an unfamiliar rental car, Kristin tried to get her bearings. The car, with all the bells and whistles, was disorienting on a good day. But, coupled with a red eye flight, it was overwhelming. Her trip from Denver to Charlotte had been delayed due to thunderstorms in Colorado. She had waited, frustration barely in check, for 75 agonizing minutes on the tarmac. Finally, United # 367 took off and climbed into the darkening sky.
Sleep wouldn’t come on the plane and Kristin was too conservative about medication to even take extra strength Tylenol, let alone a sleeping pill. She had too much to process anyway. What would the coming days bring? How would she handle what she had been dreading since her first foray into adulthood? Just thinking exhausted her.
Thankfully, the flight was uneventful, and she managed to find her way to the rental car center in Charlotte without too much trouble. She felt raw and exposed, as if any slight altercation or hint of rudeness would cause her to dissolve into breath robbing sobs. It was almost like others could sense it, even complete strangers. People seemed to be a little gentler to her, gave her some space. The rental car attendant kindly put her bags in the trunk and explained the controls on the dashboard. He smiled at her, wishing her a pleasant trip.
That would prove impossible, Kristin thought as she followed the signs to the freeway. It was about a 30 minute drive from the airport to her parents’ house. She knew the route well, after having driven it many times since moving from Charlotte 10 years ago. All previous trips had been filled with excitement at seeing her mom and dad, relaxing in the safe haven of her childhood home, eating her favorite meals cooked by Mom, who would go to the grocery store about 7 times in the preceding week to get every food Kristin liked.
Now, the world seemed colder and lonelier. The brutality of survival was creeping closer. Her mom could always make it stay at the edges of her life, even from 1500 miles away. Now her mom was fading and so were her protector and chief advocate, the one who could pick up Kristin and brush her off, just like she did when she would take a tumble on the playground or when a high school boy would be careless with her heart.
She parked outside the house she knew and loved so much. It was a yellow two story on the corner of a quiet residential street, with 5 trees on the parkway, shading the home in the summer and draping it in vibrant colors come autumn. The little front porch, where Mom and Dad sat and watched the world go round, was empty. Two chairs and a little table with petunias sat on the porch. Everything looked the same on the outside, but on the inside, something had gone terribly wrong. Her mom was not supposed to get brain cancer, and certainly not a highly aggressive one like a glioblastoma. That happened to other people. Doctors were supposed to come back after exams with reassurances, not death sentences.
She let herself into the house and into her father’s arms for a long embrace. Heart pounding, she climbed the stairs up to her parents’ bedroom and quietly entered. The drapes were tightly drawn, but she could make out her mother lying on the bed, and an array of medicine bottles on the nightstand. She sat down on the chair next to the bed as her mother, who must have felt her presence, slowly turned her head to her.
“Mom, I’m here,” Kristin whispered as she leaned in to give her a kiss and gently lay her head on her mother’s chest. Her mom sighed and weakly caressed her hair, much like she did when Kristin was a girl. They stayed that for a long time, not speaking, one not wanting to let the other one go; until the time came when Kristin had no other choice.
Sleep wouldn’t come on the plane and Kristin was too conservative about medication to even take extra strength Tylenol, let alone a sleeping pill. She had too much to process anyway. What would the coming days bring? How would she handle what she had been dreading since her first foray into adulthood? Just thinking exhausted her.
Thankfully, the flight was uneventful, and she managed to find her way to the rental car center in Charlotte without too much trouble. She felt raw and exposed, as if any slight altercation or hint of rudeness would cause her to dissolve into breath robbing sobs. It was almost like others could sense it, even complete strangers. People seemed to be a little gentler to her, gave her some space. The rental car attendant kindly put her bags in the trunk and explained the controls on the dashboard. He smiled at her, wishing her a pleasant trip.
That would prove impossible, Kristin thought as she followed the signs to the freeway. It was about a 30 minute drive from the airport to her parents’ house. She knew the route well, after having driven it many times since moving from Charlotte 10 years ago. All previous trips had been filled with excitement at seeing her mom and dad, relaxing in the safe haven of her childhood home, eating her favorite meals cooked by Mom, who would go to the grocery store about 7 times in the preceding week to get every food Kristin liked.
Now, the world seemed colder and lonelier. The brutality of survival was creeping closer. Her mom could always make it stay at the edges of her life, even from 1500 miles away. Now her mom was fading and so were her protector and chief advocate, the one who could pick up Kristin and brush her off, just like she did when she would take a tumble on the playground or when a high school boy would be careless with her heart.
She parked outside the house she knew and loved so much. It was a yellow two story on the corner of a quiet residential street, with 5 trees on the parkway, shading the home in the summer and draping it in vibrant colors come autumn. The little front porch, where Mom and Dad sat and watched the world go round, was empty. Two chairs and a little table with petunias sat on the porch. Everything looked the same on the outside, but on the inside, something had gone terribly wrong. Her mom was not supposed to get brain cancer, and certainly not a highly aggressive one like a glioblastoma. That happened to other people. Doctors were supposed to come back after exams with reassurances, not death sentences.
She let herself into the house and into her father’s arms for a long embrace. Heart pounding, she climbed the stairs up to her parents’ bedroom and quietly entered. The drapes were tightly drawn, but she could make out her mother lying on the bed, and an array of medicine bottles on the nightstand. She sat down on the chair next to the bed as her mother, who must have felt her presence, slowly turned her head to her.
“Mom, I’m here,” Kristin whispered as she leaned in to give her a kiss and gently lay her head on her mother’s chest. Her mom sighed and weakly caressed her hair, much like she did when Kristin was a girl. They stayed that for a long time, not speaking, one not wanting to let the other one go; until the time came when Kristin had no other choice.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Write About A Picnic
"Have you ever noticed," Lissa began, "that food tastes so much better when eaten outside?" She held the last bite of her sandwich in front of her thick glasses and gazed for a moment at the bright yellow mustard that was slowly oozing over the edge of the bread before popping the whole thing into her mouth and chewing, thoughtfully. She didn't expect Eddie to answer, really. But she rolled over onto her stomach and gazed over at him anyway. He was still lying on his back, eyes half opened, gazing somewhere between the clouds and the sky. A stray blade of grass was stuck to the side of his neck and Lissa wanted to brush it off if only she weren't so lazy and content. With a sigh, she turned back to the wicker picnic basket and rummaged through it for a few minutes before pulling out a bunch of red grapes.
"Eddie," she began again with no exasperation in her voice, "are you listening? I asked you about the food."
"What?" Eddie blinked against the sunlight and rolled over and up onto one elbow, the motion dislodging the stray strand of grass and sending it gently twirling onto the picnic blanket which was covered in crumbs and scurrying ants. "Sorry Liss, my mind was off wandering. Did you want something?" he smiled at her lazily and reached an open palm toward her.
Lissa plucked a handful of still chilled grapes from the bunch and dropped them into his palm. A few rained down to join the crumbs and insects but neither child seemed to mind. With a deep sigh, Eddie flopped onto his back again, tossing grapes into his mouth haphazardly while his sister held a single grape up before the sun. It glowed. She smiled before she bit it in half, carefully, savoring the tart juice and dusky skin.
The basket was nearly empty and Nana would be expecting them home soon. Lissa wished this idyllic afternoon could stretch forever. Pushing her glasses atop her nose, Lissa dropped the remaining grapes back into their bin and crossed her legs. There was a reason for this picnic beyond simple relaxation.
"Eddie, we can't procrastinate any longer," she chided him as she tried to rub out the mustard stain that marred her shirt. "I hereby call to order this meeting of The Defenders of the Secrets of the Silver Chalice and Golden Box." She paused, and her glasses slid down her nose a bit. "That really is a horrid name, Eddie. Can't we shorten it or something?" she asked her brother.
"To what?" Eddie answered, still tossing grapes. "DSSCGB doesn't exactly roll off the tongue either. I still still think we should call it The Defenders. It's short and to the point."
Lissa frowned at him but didn't answer. This was an old argument that she wanted to avoid right now. The sun was too low as it was. There wasn't time to waste going over old territory. The purpose of this clandestine meeting was to discuss the addition of a new member, in fact the first new member ever, to the DSSCGB. For the past two months, their cousin Hunter and been hounding them to let him in. Lissa had her doubts but Eddie had finally convinced her that new blood was exactly what they needed. Of course, they had to come up with some sort of initiation ceremony and secret vow to be taken on penalty of death. Unfortunately, they had spend the last two hours lazing in the sunshine and eating Ms. Hale's delicious picnic treats instead of focusing on business. As it stood, they had less than half and hour to bang out the ceremony and vows. This would be difficult under the best of circumstances but faced with a full belly, blue skies, and the sound of the wind skimming through the trees, the odds where decidedly stacked against them. Lissa, however, was determined.
"Eddie," she began again with no exasperation in her voice, "are you listening? I asked you about the food."
"What?" Eddie blinked against the sunlight and rolled over and up onto one elbow, the motion dislodging the stray strand of grass and sending it gently twirling onto the picnic blanket which was covered in crumbs and scurrying ants. "Sorry Liss, my mind was off wandering. Did you want something?" he smiled at her lazily and reached an open palm toward her.
Lissa plucked a handful of still chilled grapes from the bunch and dropped them into his palm. A few rained down to join the crumbs and insects but neither child seemed to mind. With a deep sigh, Eddie flopped onto his back again, tossing grapes into his mouth haphazardly while his sister held a single grape up before the sun. It glowed. She smiled before she bit it in half, carefully, savoring the tart juice and dusky skin.
The basket was nearly empty and Nana would be expecting them home soon. Lissa wished this idyllic afternoon could stretch forever. Pushing her glasses atop her nose, Lissa dropped the remaining grapes back into their bin and crossed her legs. There was a reason for this picnic beyond simple relaxation.
"Eddie, we can't procrastinate any longer," she chided him as she tried to rub out the mustard stain that marred her shirt. "I hereby call to order this meeting of The Defenders of the Secrets of the Silver Chalice and Golden Box." She paused, and her glasses slid down her nose a bit. "That really is a horrid name, Eddie. Can't we shorten it or something?" she asked her brother.
"To what?" Eddie answered, still tossing grapes. "DSSCGB doesn't exactly roll off the tongue either. I still still think we should call it The Defenders. It's short and to the point."
Lissa frowned at him but didn't answer. This was an old argument that she wanted to avoid right now. The sun was too low as it was. There wasn't time to waste going over old territory. The purpose of this clandestine meeting was to discuss the addition of a new member, in fact the first new member ever, to the DSSCGB. For the past two months, their cousin Hunter and been hounding them to let him in. Lissa had her doubts but Eddie had finally convinced her that new blood was exactly what they needed. Of course, they had to come up with some sort of initiation ceremony and secret vow to be taken on penalty of death. Unfortunately, they had spend the last two hours lazing in the sunshine and eating Ms. Hale's delicious picnic treats instead of focusing on business. As it stood, they had less than half and hour to bang out the ceremony and vows. This would be difficult under the best of circumstances but faced with a full belly, blue skies, and the sound of the wind skimming through the trees, the odds where decidedly stacked against them. Lissa, however, was determined.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Awake at first light......
Awake at first light on a magnificent summer morning, the chorus of birds is my alarm clock. In the predawn hour, one hearty bird, or obnoxious one, depending on your tolerance for early mornings, gears up as lead performer. Based on some internal mechanism set by his ancestors generations ago, he debuts at 4:45 on the dot and gets the ball rolling. Soon, others from my backyard flock join in and before I know it….aviary symphony.
I don’t mind. In the summer I am up with the sun and outside, full of energy and about 5 pounds lighter than in winter. This morning, I rest quietly in bed, listening to the sopranos a few minutes longer. Then, I pull on my tattered dark green sweatshirt, complete with the St. Louis arch, frayed on the edges and two sizes too big. It is perfect for wrapping me in as I sit on the swing in the backyard. I sip my coffee, smooth and silky with Vanilla Nut creamer, and watch its steam drift into the early morning air. It is crisp and slightly dewy outside. The sky is gray to the west and transitioning pink behind Mt. Hood. Soon it will climb over the peak and the sky will give one last pink hurrah before endless summer blue takes over. The air is ripe with anticipation of what a new day might bring.
My neighborhood is quiet except for a few sorry souls who have to go to work. Occasionally I hear a car go by. My neighbors are still sleeping, as are my dog and little boy. I sit and think. I don’t even bother to get the paper from the front porch. I just have mundane thoughts like, “Which park to go to today? What errands need to be done?” Ordinary, I know, but I am blessed to have nothing on my plate other than quiet summer days with my family.
Slowly, the sun is rising over the mountain. The sky is changing, the pavement is getting warmer. My coffee cup is empty. I walk back into the house and refill it. As I do, I hear the jingle of Daisy’s collar as she gives her beagle ears their morning shake. Then I hear a tentative scratch, indicating she wants out. Hers is the first of many requests and needs I will fulfill today. Soon, Z’s feet will go padding down the stairs and I will be the recipient of a running commentary on any of the following topics: racing cars, which dinosaurs are the coolest, Daisy having a dozen puppies; and my breakfast favorite, the grossest road kill we’ve ever seen.
Inevitably, I will be barraged with requests for mac ‘n cheese, webkinz and Lego building. The peace will be obliterated by one enthusiastic 7 year old and mom duties will begin. But for now, it is just me and my coffee and….recently, one barrel-shaped beagle….sitting outside, watching my little corner of the world come alive.
I don’t mind. In the summer I am up with the sun and outside, full of energy and about 5 pounds lighter than in winter. This morning, I rest quietly in bed, listening to the sopranos a few minutes longer. Then, I pull on my tattered dark green sweatshirt, complete with the St. Louis arch, frayed on the edges and two sizes too big. It is perfect for wrapping me in as I sit on the swing in the backyard. I sip my coffee, smooth and silky with Vanilla Nut creamer, and watch its steam drift into the early morning air. It is crisp and slightly dewy outside. The sky is gray to the west and transitioning pink behind Mt. Hood. Soon it will climb over the peak and the sky will give one last pink hurrah before endless summer blue takes over. The air is ripe with anticipation of what a new day might bring.
My neighborhood is quiet except for a few sorry souls who have to go to work. Occasionally I hear a car go by. My neighbors are still sleeping, as are my dog and little boy. I sit and think. I don’t even bother to get the paper from the front porch. I just have mundane thoughts like, “Which park to go to today? What errands need to be done?” Ordinary, I know, but I am blessed to have nothing on my plate other than quiet summer days with my family.
Slowly, the sun is rising over the mountain. The sky is changing, the pavement is getting warmer. My coffee cup is empty. I walk back into the house and refill it. As I do, I hear the jingle of Daisy’s collar as she gives her beagle ears their morning shake. Then I hear a tentative scratch, indicating she wants out. Hers is the first of many requests and needs I will fulfill today. Soon, Z’s feet will go padding down the stairs and I will be the recipient of a running commentary on any of the following topics: racing cars, which dinosaurs are the coolest, Daisy having a dozen puppies; and my breakfast favorite, the grossest road kill we’ve ever seen.
Inevitably, I will be barraged with requests for mac ‘n cheese, webkinz and Lego building. The peace will be obliterated by one enthusiastic 7 year old and mom duties will begin. But for now, it is just me and my coffee and….recently, one barrel-shaped beagle….sitting outside, watching my little corner of the world come alive.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Write About Looking Back
Looking back I can see now how wrong he was for me, but at the time I was sure I had found my soul mate. It seems the older I get, the more lost I become. When I was 17, I had all the answers. I knew who I was, where I was going, and that love would last forever. Imagine my surprise when it didn't.
It's now 30 years later but I cannot say I am 30 years wiser. If anything, my present mind-set is murky at best. When I shake the magic eight ball, the triangle that floats to the top is Reply Hazy, Try Again Later. Where have all the Definately-s gone? My belly is flabby and round. My outline in general has turned lumpy. Gone are the hard lines of youth. I look back at photos of me on the beach. I cannot believe the definition of my thighs, the sunken smoothness of my stomach. Was I aware of what I had? Probably not. But now I am oh so aware of what I have lost.
But time plays tricks with the mind. It seems only last week that I lay in my bedroom whispering on my phone late into the night hoping my parents would not awake and scold me. Now trying to say up past 11 takes a herculean effort and I'm rewarded in the morning with drawn eyes and bleary vision. I remember flying down the road in his car, stereo blasting, windows rolled down, and belting out a song and the top of my lungs while his hand rested on my thigh. Ditching the dance chaperons to sneak into the bushed for some deep kissing and roving hands.
But the moment that stands out most vividly in my grown-up mind is the night of prom. Standing alone on the porch, crying out my broken heart as he drove away for the last time. I sat there on the cold concrete in all my satin finery and waited in vain. Straining to see the return of his headlight though the fog, only slowing realizing that my soul had not found its mate after all. But sitting there in the bitter morning mist, this is my last crisp image I have. The rest is fuzzy and indistinct at best. A string of odd roommates and pets, a few dates that fizzled before they began, working though the summer and waiting in the rain for buses that always seemed to run late.
But maybe this is what it means to grow up. Maybe, like Wendy, we all become too old for nursery stories and trips to Never Never Land. I think my last night with Pan was spent there on my front porch. I think after that, the magic of childhood was gone and the reality to living has taken over. But I will continue to shake the magic 8 ball. I will Concentrate And Ask Again Later. Even if the Outlook Is Not So Good.
It's now 30 years later but I cannot say I am 30 years wiser. If anything, my present mind-set is murky at best. When I shake the magic eight ball, the triangle that floats to the top is Reply Hazy, Try Again Later. Where have all the Definately-s gone? My belly is flabby and round. My outline in general has turned lumpy. Gone are the hard lines of youth. I look back at photos of me on the beach. I cannot believe the definition of my thighs, the sunken smoothness of my stomach. Was I aware of what I had? Probably not. But now I am oh so aware of what I have lost.
But time plays tricks with the mind. It seems only last week that I lay in my bedroom whispering on my phone late into the night hoping my parents would not awake and scold me. Now trying to say up past 11 takes a herculean effort and I'm rewarded in the morning with drawn eyes and bleary vision. I remember flying down the road in his car, stereo blasting, windows rolled down, and belting out a song and the top of my lungs while his hand rested on my thigh. Ditching the dance chaperons to sneak into the bushed for some deep kissing and roving hands.
But the moment that stands out most vividly in my grown-up mind is the night of prom. Standing alone on the porch, crying out my broken heart as he drove away for the last time. I sat there on the cold concrete in all my satin finery and waited in vain. Straining to see the return of his headlight though the fog, only slowing realizing that my soul had not found its mate after all. But sitting there in the bitter morning mist, this is my last crisp image I have. The rest is fuzzy and indistinct at best. A string of odd roommates and pets, a few dates that fizzled before they began, working though the summer and waiting in the rain for buses that always seemed to run late.
But maybe this is what it means to grow up. Maybe, like Wendy, we all become too old for nursery stories and trips to Never Never Land. I think my last night with Pan was spent there on my front porch. I think after that, the magic of childhood was gone and the reality to living has taken over. But I will continue to shake the magic 8 ball. I will Concentrate And Ask Again Later. Even if the Outlook Is Not So Good.
Friday, May 13, 2011
This is the moon I was born under......
One quilt hung across the room of the log cabin. That was all the privacy Mama got while she was in labor. Aunt Elsie entertained Will, Jack and Minnie; tried to take their minds off the moans and eventual screams of agony erupting from Mama. At age 8, Will was old enough to remember this saga from when Minnie was born. He only occasionally glanced at the quilt, and not until the very end.
Jack and Minnie, only 4 and 2 respectively, needed almost constant reassurance that what Mama was going through was natural and what the Good Lord intended. Papa didn’t care if it was natural or not. He couldn’t take the feelings of helplessness and the stress of the whole ordeal . As with most men, he could kill and gut a bobcat, ride mile after frigid mile on horseback, track a bear’s trail across the terrain, but an infant coming into the world caused him to tuck his tail between his legs and retreat to the barn.
Only the women stayed nearby: MeMaw, Aunt Julia and Ida Sue. They fetched water to sip, sponged away sweat, helped Mama sit up when she needed to bellow, and prayed. Mama had felt the first stirrings of labor this morning. Now it was close to one o’clock the next day and I was about to make my appearance.
Based on previous experience, Papa could hear from the barn that the time was near. He exited the barn and stood just outside its door. It was an utterly bone-chilling night in mid-December. There had been yet another snow storm a few days earlier. Glistening snow lay undisturbed for miles around. Here in the clearing, the landscape was as smooth and slick as porcelain. Even though it was the middle of the night, the full moon illuminated the whiteness so Papa could see MeMaw’s wagon against the split rail fence near the horse corral.
Papa stretched his neck and back, trying to alleviate the stress of the day. He studied the night sky with a practiced eye: velvet blackness, punctuated only by iridescent stars, seemingly close enough to grasp; a clear bone-white circle of moon with the slightest hint of filminess around its edges, the dark spots on its surface as visible as the blisters on his own hands.
Suddenly, Papa was aware of silence; a silence so intense he could hear the breathing of the horses two stalls away. His heart skipped a beat and then started racing. He lit out for the cabin, fearing the worst. As he reached the door, he heard one of God’s greatest gifts, a healthy newborn cry.
Papa entered the cabin and cautiously peeked around the quilt. Mama was lying back on a pillow, drenched in perspiration, flushed and exhausted, but looking serene as she held me in a little warm bundle of blankets.
The women looked over at Papa. “You’ve got yourself a beautiful baby girl,” MeMaw said, a broad grin plastered across her face.
It was a story I would hear over and over, and always cherish. The night my Papa and the moon awaited my entrance into the world.
Jack and Minnie, only 4 and 2 respectively, needed almost constant reassurance that what Mama was going through was natural and what the Good Lord intended. Papa didn’t care if it was natural or not. He couldn’t take the feelings of helplessness and the stress of the whole ordeal . As with most men, he could kill and gut a bobcat, ride mile after frigid mile on horseback, track a bear’s trail across the terrain, but an infant coming into the world caused him to tuck his tail between his legs and retreat to the barn.
Only the women stayed nearby: MeMaw, Aunt Julia and Ida Sue. They fetched water to sip, sponged away sweat, helped Mama sit up when she needed to bellow, and prayed. Mama had felt the first stirrings of labor this morning. Now it was close to one o’clock the next day and I was about to make my appearance.
Based on previous experience, Papa could hear from the barn that the time was near. He exited the barn and stood just outside its door. It was an utterly bone-chilling night in mid-December. There had been yet another snow storm a few days earlier. Glistening snow lay undisturbed for miles around. Here in the clearing, the landscape was as smooth and slick as porcelain. Even though it was the middle of the night, the full moon illuminated the whiteness so Papa could see MeMaw’s wagon against the split rail fence near the horse corral.
Papa stretched his neck and back, trying to alleviate the stress of the day. He studied the night sky with a practiced eye: velvet blackness, punctuated only by iridescent stars, seemingly close enough to grasp; a clear bone-white circle of moon with the slightest hint of filminess around its edges, the dark spots on its surface as visible as the blisters on his own hands.
Suddenly, Papa was aware of silence; a silence so intense he could hear the breathing of the horses two stalls away. His heart skipped a beat and then started racing. He lit out for the cabin, fearing the worst. As he reached the door, he heard one of God’s greatest gifts, a healthy newborn cry.
Papa entered the cabin and cautiously peeked around the quilt. Mama was lying back on a pillow, drenched in perspiration, flushed and exhausted, but looking serene as she held me in a little warm bundle of blankets.
The women looked over at Papa. “You’ve got yourself a beautiful baby girl,” MeMaw said, a broad grin plastered across her face.
It was a story I would hear over and over, and always cherish. The night my Papa and the moon awaited my entrance into the world.
Thursday, May 12, 2011
She Holed Up In Mexico
Of course, she is beautiful. And tiny. She will have long hair that is disheveled in the most romantic fashion that is only achievable with three on-site stylists each wielding a teasing comb, hair spray and large curling iron. Cue the spray bottles to moisten her skin with a dewy sweat that evokes images of rumpled sheets. Not too much! We don't want to suggest any odor.
Oh, that's good. Maybe another spritz more over her white pheasant top. And let's loosen that top string just a bit more. Perfect. But we're going to need to spray the cleavage too. Nice, nice. Good.
Now, remember, this tiny beauty is A Woman Scorned. Something dreadful and character altering has occurred. She has lost her lover... or her father... no, I have it, her child. Yes! A woman who is filled with the rage of a protective mother. Think Sarah Palin with cleavage sweat.
And, of course, she is trained in martial arts. Oh yes, all that flowing hair can whip about and toss around men four times her size with ease. She can rack and shoot with marksman's precision while beads of dewy bosom sweat fly off her in slow mo. Because her mission to find the killer who took her child gives her power! Gurl Power! It will be completely believable that this 90 lb tiny thing will be able to physically best a 220 lb stunt man. Tell SFX we will need that wall to be paper-maiched so she can toss Tough Guy #4 through it in Scene 87.
But there is more. Of course, there is more. She tracks the Bad Guy to a remote village somewhere in Mexico where he has hole up. What makes him so bad? I don't know, give him bad orthodontia and a swathery beard. That should suffice. But in this remote village there must also be The Man. Insert some barely plausible story whereby he too has landed in this hot, stucco clad back-lot. He will come from a place of violence but he has renounced it all. He now farms or raises chickens or some such thing that involves sitting stoically at a dingy bar slugging back an impossible number of shots of hard liquor while trying to forget. I'm think ex-navy seal. Or possibly secret CIA op. An ankle holster would be hot. Check with wardrobe for that, would you?
And, of course, they meet. And, of course, he falls for the damp peasant blouse and the glistening skin and her hard exterior. And, of course, for her he will re-open his past and together, guns blazing they will get the Bad Guy.
Probably, we will also need lots of climbing bougainvillea, a few cute local kids with big brown eyes and wide white smiles to chant "si, senora". And we need an Innocent that will die at the hands of the Bad Man. Maybe a dog. Not enough? Ok, how about if tiny Senorita has a younger sister who has fallen in with Bad Man? That's good right? We'll have to find her a different pheasant top. And order more cleavage sweat. I'm smelling box office hit here!
Oh, that's good. Maybe another spritz more over her white pheasant top. And let's loosen that top string just a bit more. Perfect. But we're going to need to spray the cleavage too. Nice, nice. Good.
Now, remember, this tiny beauty is A Woman Scorned. Something dreadful and character altering has occurred. She has lost her lover... or her father... no, I have it, her child. Yes! A woman who is filled with the rage of a protective mother. Think Sarah Palin with cleavage sweat.
And, of course, she is trained in martial arts. Oh yes, all that flowing hair can whip about and toss around men four times her size with ease. She can rack and shoot with marksman's precision while beads of dewy bosom sweat fly off her in slow mo. Because her mission to find the killer who took her child gives her power! Gurl Power! It will be completely believable that this 90 lb tiny thing will be able to physically best a 220 lb stunt man. Tell SFX we will need that wall to be paper-maiched so she can toss Tough Guy #4 through it in Scene 87.
But there is more. Of course, there is more. She tracks the Bad Guy to a remote village somewhere in Mexico where he has hole up. What makes him so bad? I don't know, give him bad orthodontia and a swathery beard. That should suffice. But in this remote village there must also be The Man. Insert some barely plausible story whereby he too has landed in this hot, stucco clad back-lot. He will come from a place of violence but he has renounced it all. He now farms or raises chickens or some such thing that involves sitting stoically at a dingy bar slugging back an impossible number of shots of hard liquor while trying to forget. I'm think ex-navy seal. Or possibly secret CIA op. An ankle holster would be hot. Check with wardrobe for that, would you?
And, of course, they meet. And, of course, he falls for the damp peasant blouse and the glistening skin and her hard exterior. And, of course, for her he will re-open his past and together, guns blazing they will get the Bad Guy.
Probably, we will also need lots of climbing bougainvillea, a few cute local kids with big brown eyes and wide white smiles to chant "si, senora". And we need an Innocent that will die at the hands of the Bad Man. Maybe a dog. Not enough? Ok, how about if tiny Senorita has a younger sister who has fallen in with Bad Man? That's good right? We'll have to find her a different pheasant top. And order more cleavage sweat. I'm smelling box office hit here!
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
A Concert
I have stood mesmerized while Sinead O’Conner sang a cappella and acoustic at the Paramount
I have teeny bopped to Brian Adams in the King Dome.
I have worn ripped pants and an angry face to AC/DC in the Tacoma Dome.
I have twirled to the Dead at Seattle Center
I have bounced to Phish, entirely uncomprehending.
I have sipped Greyhounds at Jazz Alley while Michael Brecker and Diane Reeves lulled and crooned intimately in the soft spotlight.
I have drunkenly dissolved into the hypnotic rhythm of Ziggy Marley’s Reggae.
I have screamed with Melissa Etheridge with multitudes of other empowered women of the early 90s. Somebody bring me some water, can’t you see I’m burning inside.
I have held a lighter to the purple night sky and felt closer to God during a Dave Matthews concert at Red Rocks.
I have come down off of Mount of the Holy Cross , washed in the river, and stumbled in to the Aspen Jazz Festival and danced with the moon to Blues Traveler on a frosted blue sky Memorial Day weekend.
But nothing,
Not one thing compares to the concert of your heart beat through the tinny speaker Dr. Lasich held to my belly that October afternoon.
Swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish
One hundred and forty times a minute.
Swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish swish
My blood pushing your blood.
My heart pumping your heart.
Like a drum beat and a bass guitar. A perfect pairing.
The most intimate rhythm I’ve ever known.
Our rhythm.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
Write about a sudden silence
Tony died a few weeks ago. He was one day shy of his 70th birthday. Although I was sad to hear the news, I wasn’t devastated. I hadn’t seen Tony in 8 years and hadn’t really spoken to him in about five. His last few years were spent in an assisted living center, his body ravaged from hard living.
Tony was a big drinker and smoked at least 2 packs of Camels each day. He ate lots of red meat and the only salad that ever touched his lips was made of iceberg lettuce, a few sorry shreds of carrots, and drowned in Western dressing. For those of you unfamiliar, Western dressing is a main attraction in the Midwest. It is deep red, fatty and tangy, much like Catalina or French. Tony would absolutely refuse to eat any other type of lettuce and, God forbid, no other vegetables. Those were not “real salads” in his mind, only some kind of west coast hippy food.
As you can imagine, Tony was not a looker. He was obese, with ashen gray, saggy skin, brown fuzzy teeth and slicked back oily hair. He was forever in flannel shirts and dingy jeans. And, my God, how that man smelled; of stale smoke and greasy food.
He was quite a shock to me, with my downstate Illinois upbringing and my small town, well mannered parents and grandparents. Where Tony was coarse, loud, ill mannered and opinionated (with hard core ideas based on little actual fact); I was used to quiet, kind, modest, and usually open-minded folks save for a few passionate topics. Tony was Chicago ethnic to the core, Polish to be exact. I had little previous experience with anyone remotely like him. He blew my eyes wide open.
Not to say that he didn’t have his good qualities, too. He was greatly skilled in construction, repairs, and mechanical things. He could be fun to be around and humorous at times; although other times he went too far. One evening, we went to dinner with Tony, his wife Mary, my brother-in-law Mike and sister-in-law Tara. Not exactly the PC police, but not on the “Tony end” of political incorrectness either. We were having a good time chatting and we had just ordered. Our waiter was an African American. Out of the blue Tony leans in and utters a racist joke, one I won’t repeat. There was a sudden silence. All good natured chatter instantly stopped as we stared at him in shock. He looked back at us earnestly, his eyes almost pleading with us to approve of his joke and laugh.
Mike deftly changed the topic and we went on talking. But I couldn’t help being ashamed of myself and the rest of us. I didn’t laugh at the joke but I didn’t stand up to him either. Did my silence condone his behavior or could I let myself off the hook? After all, he wasn’t going to change. He was older and set in his ways. Why should I make a stink and make everyone feel bad? But deep down I wished I had, because I can’t shake this feeling that a little bit of Tony drifted across the table and got stuck on me when I couldn’t find my backbone and shake him off.
Tony was a big drinker and smoked at least 2 packs of Camels each day. He ate lots of red meat and the only salad that ever touched his lips was made of iceberg lettuce, a few sorry shreds of carrots, and drowned in Western dressing. For those of you unfamiliar, Western dressing is a main attraction in the Midwest. It is deep red, fatty and tangy, much like Catalina or French. Tony would absolutely refuse to eat any other type of lettuce and, God forbid, no other vegetables. Those were not “real salads” in his mind, only some kind of west coast hippy food.
As you can imagine, Tony was not a looker. He was obese, with ashen gray, saggy skin, brown fuzzy teeth and slicked back oily hair. He was forever in flannel shirts and dingy jeans. And, my God, how that man smelled; of stale smoke and greasy food.
He was quite a shock to me, with my downstate Illinois upbringing and my small town, well mannered parents and grandparents. Where Tony was coarse, loud, ill mannered and opinionated (with hard core ideas based on little actual fact); I was used to quiet, kind, modest, and usually open-minded folks save for a few passionate topics. Tony was Chicago ethnic to the core, Polish to be exact. I had little previous experience with anyone remotely like him. He blew my eyes wide open.
Not to say that he didn’t have his good qualities, too. He was greatly skilled in construction, repairs, and mechanical things. He could be fun to be around and humorous at times; although other times he went too far. One evening, we went to dinner with Tony, his wife Mary, my brother-in-law Mike and sister-in-law Tara. Not exactly the PC police, but not on the “Tony end” of political incorrectness either. We were having a good time chatting and we had just ordered. Our waiter was an African American. Out of the blue Tony leans in and utters a racist joke, one I won’t repeat. There was a sudden silence. All good natured chatter instantly stopped as we stared at him in shock. He looked back at us earnestly, his eyes almost pleading with us to approve of his joke and laugh.
Mike deftly changed the topic and we went on talking. But I couldn’t help being ashamed of myself and the rest of us. I didn’t laugh at the joke but I didn’t stand up to him either. Did my silence condone his behavior or could I let myself off the hook? After all, he wasn’t going to change. He was older and set in his ways. Why should I make a stink and make everyone feel bad? But deep down I wished I had, because I can’t shake this feeling that a little bit of Tony drifted across the table and got stuck on me when I couldn’t find my backbone and shake him off.
Monday, May 9, 2011
A Green-Eyed Woman
When I was 12, my mother took me to a fortune teller. This isn't every odd if you know my mother. Mercurial does not even begin to describe the whirl-wind of her moods. When I was 8, we became vegetarians for a whole summer until she decided to open a pizzeria out of her kitchen. At 9, I was enrolled in an astronautic program because my mother had a dream of me flying amongst the stars. I made it to only three classes before she pulled me out for ballet. She claimed her vision of me was actually dancing among the stars, not exploring them. Ballet quickly faded into karate and from there it was a long steady glide until 12. And the fortune teller.
I remember pulling up to this little faded blue house along a small two lane byway. There was a beat up old van parked out front with the word "Psychic" in glamorous lettering. The house itself was small and soggy with a glowing neon outline of a hand flashing in the front window. I didn't hold out much hope for what was inside. I do remember we entered through what was originally the kitchen. Now it was covered in mystical symbols and strange smells. All the windows where draped in tasseled shawls lending an eerie half light to the house. The stray beams of sunshine lit up the dancing dust particles that swirled through the air as we walked by. Of course, the doorway was hung with a beaded curtain that lead to the sitting room. It was full of musty cushions and stank of incense and cat.
"Welcome, welcome," the psychic stood and gestured us toward a table where four chairs where waiting. I pulled one out and found a fat grey cat curled up on the cushion. I looked at my mother for help.
"Off now Tobias," the psychic chided, tilting the cushion and ejecting the cat onto the floor where it strolled away with all the feline dignity it could muster. She smiled at me and patted the seat cushion. It was covered in cat hair but I was too nervous to do anything but sit. I watched her as she turned to settle my mother. She was much younger than I thought she would be. Her hair was not midnight black but a mousy brown pulled back severely from her face. Long silver earrings jangled from her ears and deep lines sat around her mouth. She smelled of cigarette smoke and something else that was earthy and pungent.
"Give me your hand, child," she said, turning her attention back to me. I dutifully passed her my hand and squirmed as she traced her finger nail across my palm. It tickled. A glance at my mother warned me not to laugh. My mother had an intensity as sharp as ice. When she was focused, I had learned to hold myself still and quiet. I had learned to read her moods. Now, she was leaning forward, watching the psychic with an intense gaze. Mother's green eyes were narrowed onto my palm and she seemed to be holding her breath.
"Ah, yes," the psychic sighed, running her finger along a palm line, "you were right. She is a special child. I see here that she will attain great heights. She will rise above others. She will walk amongst the stars."
My mother lit up at this pronouncement. She grabbed my free hand and squeezed it fiercely.
"But wait," the psychic continued. Her brow furrowed and she leaned further over the table, studying my hand with an intensity. My mother leaned forward as well, her grasp on my free hand tight and hard.
"I see her way, blocked. Many obstacles in her path. But she can be guided through them. She can overcome and reach the stars. But she will need help." Here the psychic looked up. My mother met her eyes and smiled, nodding her head.
"Yes," my mother murmured, "yes, I knew it. I knew I would need to help her. For the stars."
After that, the psychic and my mother continued to whisper over my outstretched palm. I don't really recall what schemes they foresaw for me. The cat had slipped through the beaded curtain and I watched as he rolled about in a stream of sunlight sending dust tumbling through the air. The only other thing I do remember was right before we left. The psychic placed my hand down on the table at looked right at me.
"Beware the green eyed woman," she said. Having listened to so much babbled, I gave it little thought. But now, years later, I wonder if she wasn't speaking of mother. Perhaps she wasn't some road side charlatan. Perhaps she did see something in my palm but I was too young to realize her warning was genuine.
I remember pulling up to this little faded blue house along a small two lane byway. There was a beat up old van parked out front with the word "Psychic" in glamorous lettering. The house itself was small and soggy with a glowing neon outline of a hand flashing in the front window. I didn't hold out much hope for what was inside. I do remember we entered through what was originally the kitchen. Now it was covered in mystical symbols and strange smells. All the windows where draped in tasseled shawls lending an eerie half light to the house. The stray beams of sunshine lit up the dancing dust particles that swirled through the air as we walked by. Of course, the doorway was hung with a beaded curtain that lead to the sitting room. It was full of musty cushions and stank of incense and cat.
"Welcome, welcome," the psychic stood and gestured us toward a table where four chairs where waiting. I pulled one out and found a fat grey cat curled up on the cushion. I looked at my mother for help.
"Off now Tobias," the psychic chided, tilting the cushion and ejecting the cat onto the floor where it strolled away with all the feline dignity it could muster. She smiled at me and patted the seat cushion. It was covered in cat hair but I was too nervous to do anything but sit. I watched her as she turned to settle my mother. She was much younger than I thought she would be. Her hair was not midnight black but a mousy brown pulled back severely from her face. Long silver earrings jangled from her ears and deep lines sat around her mouth. She smelled of cigarette smoke and something else that was earthy and pungent.
"Give me your hand, child," she said, turning her attention back to me. I dutifully passed her my hand and squirmed as she traced her finger nail across my palm. It tickled. A glance at my mother warned me not to laugh. My mother had an intensity as sharp as ice. When she was focused, I had learned to hold myself still and quiet. I had learned to read her moods. Now, she was leaning forward, watching the psychic with an intense gaze. Mother's green eyes were narrowed onto my palm and she seemed to be holding her breath.
"Ah, yes," the psychic sighed, running her finger along a palm line, "you were right. She is a special child. I see here that she will attain great heights. She will rise above others. She will walk amongst the stars."
My mother lit up at this pronouncement. She grabbed my free hand and squeezed it fiercely.
"But wait," the psychic continued. Her brow furrowed and she leaned further over the table, studying my hand with an intensity. My mother leaned forward as well, her grasp on my free hand tight and hard.
"I see her way, blocked. Many obstacles in her path. But she can be guided through them. She can overcome and reach the stars. But she will need help." Here the psychic looked up. My mother met her eyes and smiled, nodding her head.
"Yes," my mother murmured, "yes, I knew it. I knew I would need to help her. For the stars."
After that, the psychic and my mother continued to whisper over my outstretched palm. I don't really recall what schemes they foresaw for me. The cat had slipped through the beaded curtain and I watched as he rolled about in a stream of sunlight sending dust tumbling through the air. The only other thing I do remember was right before we left. The psychic placed my hand down on the table at looked right at me.
"Beware the green eyed woman," she said. Having listened to so much babbled, I gave it little thought. But now, years later, I wonder if she wasn't speaking of mother. Perhaps she wasn't some road side charlatan. Perhaps she did see something in my palm but I was too young to realize her warning was genuine.
Sunday, May 8, 2011
What Made Me Laugh
Owen has a tendency to knock down, slide against, run into, fidget with, pull apart and otherwise dismember anything that he comes in to contact with while he is waiting in line. While the underpaid, slightly perspiring transit authority worker at DIA is comparing the photos on our drivers' licenses to the names on our airline tickets and deciding whether or not we'll need a pat down, Owen has found the release latches on the portable posts the corden the hundreds of weary Christmas --oops I mean Holiday--- travelers into a giant maze of right angles. He hasn't just found the latches, he's released them and the black straps snap back into the posts with an alarming force. People around us look annoyed.
Owen realized that was some good stuff, that discovery. He releases the latches to those people corrals at the bank, at Kaiser in the pharmacy, going through Customs in Canada. It's always when I am in the middle of a transaction, when I have to release my grip on his hand to swipe my card.
He can't pick up a box juice or Organic Horizon Milk from the refrigerator at Starbucks without ripping off the straw.
The therapist I went to (briefly) about the "dysphoria" I felt anytime I walked in to some establishment with my fearless and obsessively tactile child suggested I role play getting a coffee at Starbucks beforehand. The problem with that was I needed the coffee before I could begin the role play.
So here we are in line for a coffee at a local coffee house.We have talked about keeping our hands to ourselves while in line. I've done a little half hearted role play that neither of us really got in to. It's our turn to order. Thank you, Jesus. The straws are just so tempting. I step up to the counter and Owen sidesteps away from me. He is being pulled by the force of the Caution, Slippery Floor yellow sign that is straddling a recently mopped spill. You know the sign, the plastic a-frame that comes with the mop and bucket, and has a picture of a stick figure man falling backwards and there is a big circle and slash around him.
As I swipe my card and feel a breeze at my side where I am supposed to feel a three year old. I hear the clatter and then the crash. I don't need to turn around to know that Owen has knocked over the sign. Joyfully. It never occurs to me that Owen might haven fallen on the slippery tile. It didn't need to.
I walk firmly to Owen, get at his level, hold his eyes with mine, and say, although it's more of a hiss ,"Owen, we have just finished talking about keeping our hands to ourselves. I let go of your hand for two seconds, and look what happens." I point to the sign that has now collapsed on the floor.
"What is wrong with this picture?" I shrill.
Nonplussed, Owen bends down to get a closer look at the sign. "Well, there is a man and he is falling backward onto the floor because it's wet."
Owen realized that was some good stuff, that discovery. He releases the latches to those people corrals at the bank, at Kaiser in the pharmacy, going through Customs in Canada. It's always when I am in the middle of a transaction, when I have to release my grip on his hand to swipe my card.
He can't pick up a box juice or Organic Horizon Milk from the refrigerator at Starbucks without ripping off the straw.
The therapist I went to (briefly) about the "dysphoria" I felt anytime I walked in to some establishment with my fearless and obsessively tactile child suggested I role play getting a coffee at Starbucks beforehand. The problem with that was I needed the coffee before I could begin the role play.
So here we are in line for a coffee at a local coffee house.We have talked about keeping our hands to ourselves while in line. I've done a little half hearted role play that neither of us really got in to. It's our turn to order. Thank you, Jesus. The straws are just so tempting. I step up to the counter and Owen sidesteps away from me. He is being pulled by the force of the Caution, Slippery Floor yellow sign that is straddling a recently mopped spill. You know the sign, the plastic a-frame that comes with the mop and bucket, and has a picture of a stick figure man falling backwards and there is a big circle and slash around him.
As I swipe my card and feel a breeze at my side where I am supposed to feel a three year old. I hear the clatter and then the crash. I don't need to turn around to know that Owen has knocked over the sign. Joyfully. It never occurs to me that Owen might haven fallen on the slippery tile. It didn't need to.
I walk firmly to Owen, get at his level, hold his eyes with mine, and say, although it's more of a hiss ,"Owen, we have just finished talking about keeping our hands to ourselves. I let go of your hand for two seconds, and look what happens." I point to the sign that has now collapsed on the floor.
"What is wrong with this picture?" I shrill.
Nonplussed, Owen bends down to get a closer look at the sign. "Well, there is a man and he is falling backward onto the floor because it's wet."
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Write about the opening of blossoms.....
Tightly enclosed, huddled in the dark, fear pervades
I can’t see, can’t feel. All I find is nothing.
Nothing good, nothing beautiful, nothing to grasp
You reached for my hand. I retreated.
You persisted. I acquiesced.
Love, hope, healing
You were light peeking in the darkness, just a sliver at first.
Constant light, a beacon during a never ending squall
Opening, accepting, unclenching
An awareness of new life
Gratitude that I have survived
Fragile, but here. Tread lightly.
I can’t see, can’t feel. All I find is nothing.
Nothing good, nothing beautiful, nothing to grasp
You reached for my hand. I retreated.
You persisted. I acquiesced.
Love, hope, healing
You were light peeking in the darkness, just a sliver at first.
Constant light, a beacon during a never ending squall
Opening, accepting, unclenching
An awareness of new life
Gratitude that I have survived
Fragile, but here. Tread lightly.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
The Moon Made Me Do It
She peeks over my shoulder and whispers in my ear
as I walk by your house.
My shadow before me, leading the way.
Her glimmering spotlight pins me,
dares me,
mocks me.
My feet stop at the gate. Have I seen it before?
In the sun it was negligible but under this moon, impassible.
But my shadow is unafraid and crosses the threshold.
Up the walk I scurry after,
until
I reach
your door.
Knock or ring?
The moon behind me sings her song of courage and foolishness.
Brave shadow stands before me still.
A moon shadow that raises its hand and descends until,
you open
the door.
Shadow? Moon shadow? Have you left me so soon?
The light of your house has scared my moon self away.
Your eyes tell me all I need to hear.
My welcome long lost. Love turned to awkward silence,
embarrassed stammering, and an empty good-bye.
My shadow follows me now down your walk,
no longer ahead,
chastised behind.
Ah moonshine, what folly you wreck!
Give me the harsh light of day!
Save me from your silvery strands of hope.
Of memory.
No more.
as I walk by your house.
My shadow before me, leading the way.
Her glimmering spotlight pins me,
dares me,
mocks me.
My feet stop at the gate. Have I seen it before?
In the sun it was negligible but under this moon, impassible.
But my shadow is unafraid and crosses the threshold.
Up the walk I scurry after,
until
I reach
your door.
Knock or ring?
The moon behind me sings her song of courage and foolishness.
Brave shadow stands before me still.
A moon shadow that raises its hand and descends until,
you open
the door.
Shadow? Moon shadow? Have you left me so soon?
The light of your house has scared my moon self away.
Your eyes tell me all I need to hear.
My welcome long lost. Love turned to awkward silence,
embarrassed stammering, and an empty good-bye.
My shadow follows me now down your walk,
no longer ahead,
chastised behind.
Ah moonshine, what folly you wreck!
Give me the harsh light of day!
Save me from your silvery strands of hope.
Of memory.
No more.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
She rode off on a Harley
She had been obsessing for about a year. One day, after a grueling, spirit squelching adventure at work, she curled up on her plush overstuffed couch with a mellow cabernet and the latest issue of Ladies Home Journal. Okay, not exactly “happening”, but it was what she wanted after a 14 hour day and an increased bitterness towards the rest of humanity. There on the Table of Contents, page 25, was a piece that jump right off the page and into her soul: “Free at Last: Breaking Loose from the Chains of Materialism”. The article was about living light and leaving behind a small footprint, getting rid of the big house and the two expensive cars that you can‘t park in the garage anyway. There was a blurb in there about how happiness can only be measured by money to a certain point: enough to cover the needs with a little for saving. After a yearly income of about $50,000, happiness levels stabilized and dropped.
She nodded sympathetically. She knew all about living to work rather that working to live. She knew her happiness quotient plunged like a boulder the longer she was at her job and the more successful she became. She had less time to enjoy others, hobbies, the present moments. She was lacking in quality, surrounded by quantity.
In the typical anal-retentive, workaholic fashion that got her where she was today, she researched far and wide about living simply and cheaply. After reading the blogs, websites and articles what she discovered was this type of life excited her, renewed her energy and zest of life. It motivated her to…..become lazy. Work less. Buy less. Need less.
She started gently, parting with extravagances. Who really needs seven Coach purses? Does her skin really require Arbonne or was Oil of Olay good enough? She moved to bigger items: Cuisinart kitchen gadgets, cutting edge electronics, Pottery Barn furniture. Her townhome resembled one that had been recently burglarized: a couch facing a TV-less wall, wires sticking out where a sound system had once been.
But, as she owned less, she felt freer. The big monkey was slowly climbing off her back, knowing its ride was almost over.
Finally it was time to axe The Big Two: job and townhome. By now she had a new frame of mind. It didn’t seem like she was trying on a new life. She was living it like a pro.
Fast forward to today. She’s just handed over her keys to the realtor and given a last look to the place she has called home for the last 12 years; her former pride and joy, a three level brick townhouse with a one car garage and two decks overlooking a nature preserve. Her job in the legal department was a distant memory. It was a beautiful summer day; a cloudless sky, warm sun, gentle breeze. It was the perfect day for an unencumbered life and hers was finally about to start at the age of 46. She fastened back her long blond hair, slipped on a sleek dark purple helmet and she rode off on her Harley.
She nodded sympathetically. She knew all about living to work rather that working to live. She knew her happiness quotient plunged like a boulder the longer she was at her job and the more successful she became. She had less time to enjoy others, hobbies, the present moments. She was lacking in quality, surrounded by quantity.
In the typical anal-retentive, workaholic fashion that got her where she was today, she researched far and wide about living simply and cheaply. After reading the blogs, websites and articles what she discovered was this type of life excited her, renewed her energy and zest of life. It motivated her to…..become lazy. Work less. Buy less. Need less.
She started gently, parting with extravagances. Who really needs seven Coach purses? Does her skin really require Arbonne or was Oil of Olay good enough? She moved to bigger items: Cuisinart kitchen gadgets, cutting edge electronics, Pottery Barn furniture. Her townhome resembled one that had been recently burglarized: a couch facing a TV-less wall, wires sticking out where a sound system had once been.
But, as she owned less, she felt freer. The big monkey was slowly climbing off her back, knowing its ride was almost over.
Finally it was time to axe The Big Two: job and townhome. By now she had a new frame of mind. It didn’t seem like she was trying on a new life. She was living it like a pro.
Fast forward to today. She’s just handed over her keys to the realtor and given a last look to the place she has called home for the last 12 years; her former pride and joy, a three level brick townhouse with a one car garage and two decks overlooking a nature preserve. Her job in the legal department was a distant memory. It was a beautiful summer day; a cloudless sky, warm sun, gentle breeze. It was the perfect day for an unencumbered life and hers was finally about to start at the age of 46. She fastened back her long blond hair, slipped on a sleek dark purple helmet and she rode off on her Harley.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Mother Said
"Mother said it was my turn," Eloise announced. She was 12 years old and liked to announce just about everything she had to say. Being the oldest, she carried around her authority like a fancy waiter holding a tray high above the heads of seated patrons. Unfortunately, most of us had learned long ago to ignore Eloise's announce-y voice. Actually, we tended to ignore Eloise all together.
Billy and I kept petting the baby chicks. We were twins, born 14 minutes apart. "The longest 14 minutes of my life!" our mother always announced when someone asked about us. Billy and I, we understood each other pretty good. Without even looking up, we both knew to ignore Eloise. Besides, we had only been holding the chicks for a few minutes before she pranced in and announced.
"Billy? Willy? Did you hear me? I said, Mother said it was my turn!" Out of the corner of my eye I could see Eloise getting mad. She was smoothing down her dress and patting her hair. She always did this when she was either thinking or steaming up. I snuck a glance at Billy but he wouldn't meet my eye so I continued to ignore her.
"If you boys don't hand over those chicks right now, I am going to get Mother," Eloise announced loudly. She stomped her foot and her arms shot down along her sides stiff. This time, Billy met my glance before he stood up. I followed. Billy was older by the 14 longest minutes of mother's life. That's ok with me. I was more than willing to let Billy brave Eloise's wrath.
"We're not done Louise," Billy taunted, tucking the chick under his arm. I flinched but stood behind him. Eloise hated to be called Louise. She had announced that we were to use her full name and only her full name many times but Billy and I never listened . It was too much fun to push her buttons. I felt a grin spreading over my face. When Eloise looked at me, I stuck my tongue out from the gap between my missing front teeth. Her face scrunched up when I did that.
"Really Willy, that is so distasteful," Eloise announced in a huff. But seeing that I was backing Billy on the whole chick thing had thrown her for a loop and she took a step back. By ourselves, Eloise could get what she wanted but together, Billy and I were unstoppable and Eloise knew it. She blew out a puff of air and smoothed down her already straight hair.
"Fine," she announced, "you may have five more minutes and then it will be my turn." Eloise cocked her wrist and eyed her watch.
Billy turned back to me and I pulled my tongue into my mouth. He didn't say a word but I knew what he was thinking. As one, we turned on our heels and raced out of the bathroom where the chicks had been sleeping and tore down the hallway full tilt. We were through the kitchen and out the back door before we heard Eloise's shriek.
"WILLYANDBILLY! YOU HORRIBLE BOYS! I AM TELLING MOTHER ON YOU RIGHT NOW!" Elosie bellowed but we didn't care. We were across the yard in a flash, the chicks straining in our grasp, and up the rope to our tree house before she had finished her threat. Eloise would never make the climb in her fancy white dress and Mother never came up either. Sure, they might stand below us and announce all sorts of dire threats but Billy and I knew we could wait them out if we had to. We had a whole stash of comic books, crackers and soda stored up here. As I pulled myself up the rope ladder, I could hear Billy whooping above me. I tossed the chick onto the wooden planks that made up the floor of our fort and began to dance with him. Whooping, yelling, and stomping, Billy and I danced our Rebelllion Hellion dance that we had made up earlier that summer till we were panting and grinning and sweating. I had just caught my breath and was trying to coach my chick out from under a crate when we heard a small voice from below us.
"Willy? Billy? I wanna come up too! Please? Mother said I could."
Billy and I looked at each other and groaned. Becca had found us. Where Eloise announced, Becca whined. Eloise we could handle but Becca was a whole 'nother kettle of fish.
Billy and I kept petting the baby chicks. We were twins, born 14 minutes apart. "The longest 14 minutes of my life!" our mother always announced when someone asked about us. Billy and I, we understood each other pretty good. Without even looking up, we both knew to ignore Eloise. Besides, we had only been holding the chicks for a few minutes before she pranced in and announced.
"Billy? Willy? Did you hear me? I said, Mother said it was my turn!" Out of the corner of my eye I could see Eloise getting mad. She was smoothing down her dress and patting her hair. She always did this when she was either thinking or steaming up. I snuck a glance at Billy but he wouldn't meet my eye so I continued to ignore her.
"If you boys don't hand over those chicks right now, I am going to get Mother," Eloise announced loudly. She stomped her foot and her arms shot down along her sides stiff. This time, Billy met my glance before he stood up. I followed. Billy was older by the 14 longest minutes of mother's life. That's ok with me. I was more than willing to let Billy brave Eloise's wrath.
"We're not done Louise," Billy taunted, tucking the chick under his arm. I flinched but stood behind him. Eloise hated to be called Louise. She had announced that we were to use her full name and only her full name many times but Billy and I never listened . It was too much fun to push her buttons. I felt a grin spreading over my face. When Eloise looked at me, I stuck my tongue out from the gap between my missing front teeth. Her face scrunched up when I did that.
"Really Willy, that is so distasteful," Eloise announced in a huff. But seeing that I was backing Billy on the whole chick thing had thrown her for a loop and she took a step back. By ourselves, Eloise could get what she wanted but together, Billy and I were unstoppable and Eloise knew it. She blew out a puff of air and smoothed down her already straight hair.
"Fine," she announced, "you may have five more minutes and then it will be my turn." Eloise cocked her wrist and eyed her watch.
Billy turned back to me and I pulled my tongue into my mouth. He didn't say a word but I knew what he was thinking. As one, we turned on our heels and raced out of the bathroom where the chicks had been sleeping and tore down the hallway full tilt. We were through the kitchen and out the back door before we heard Eloise's shriek.
"WILLYANDBILLY! YOU HORRIBLE BOYS! I AM TELLING MOTHER ON YOU RIGHT NOW!" Elosie bellowed but we didn't care. We were across the yard in a flash, the chicks straining in our grasp, and up the rope to our tree house before she had finished her threat. Eloise would never make the climb in her fancy white dress and Mother never came up either. Sure, they might stand below us and announce all sorts of dire threats but Billy and I knew we could wait them out if we had to. We had a whole stash of comic books, crackers and soda stored up here. As I pulled myself up the rope ladder, I could hear Billy whooping above me. I tossed the chick onto the wooden planks that made up the floor of our fort and began to dance with him. Whooping, yelling, and stomping, Billy and I danced our Rebelllion Hellion dance that we had made up earlier that summer till we were panting and grinning and sweating. I had just caught my breath and was trying to coach my chick out from under a crate when we heard a small voice from below us.
"Willy? Billy? I wanna come up too! Please? Mother said I could."
Billy and I looked at each other and groaned. Becca had found us. Where Eloise announced, Becca whined. Eloise we could handle but Becca was a whole 'nother kettle of fish.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
This is what I remember
I remember sitting on the patio at Grandma and Papa’s, as I did every summer of my childhood. It was nothing fancy. Nothing like today’s works of art with pergolas, fountains, and cushioned couches arranged in “outdoor living room” fashion. This patio was made of big squares of cement, a little uneven, created by Papa. There were just two canvas folding chairs, aqua colored. And a wooden bench with iron legs and arm rests. I had to remember to never, ever slide on that bench or else I’d get a tush full of splinters. The wood was gray and coarse, with slivers just waiting to piece my skin.
The patio was surrounded by grass filled with clover and cut off dandelions. Papa didn’t spray chemicals on his lawn. He kept the grass short, but didn’t worry about the occasional weed. He didn’t trim the edges or bag the clippings. In a nutshell, he didn’t obsess over his lawn like suburbanites tend to do nowadays. In his mind, lawns were for playing, growing new creations and enjoying summer evenings.
On the edge of the fenced in yard was a brown and khaki green hammock trimmed with a white fringe. Flower gardens next to the fence were designed in a wild, cottage style. No Type A flowers were allowed. No severely shaped bushes could be found in this yard. Instead, towering fir trees overlooked patches of unrestrained black eyed susans. Overgrown bushes blocked the view from 3rd Avenue. Bird baths and feeders kept a supply of happy well-nourished birds for us to enjoy.
Beyond the fenced-in yard, Papa and Grandma’s land kept going, a child’s paradise. Neighbors were spread out with large unfenced property and impressive vegetable gardens that generations of today shy away from. Papa had cherry trees, raspberries, blueberries and a big square garden just for veggies. He always parked his mint green Ford pick up, complete with a hard top over the bed, right next to a huge weeping willow tree. Usually the tree’s branches hung straight down to the ground, making a wonderful hideout for my brother and me. But, one year, we arrived to find the branches cut half-way up, obliterating our hideout. The pathetic tree looked like a supermodel after being talked into a hideous bob-shaped haircut.
The sky was clear and cobalt. No haze or pollution in this little town of 2000 folks. A gentle breeze drifted off the lake, disturbing the wind-chimes. Its tinkering sounds always made me feel lazy in the sun. Lady Bug, Grandma’s little, white yap-free poodle snoozed in the sun. And soon I would be too. The house was quiet with senior citizen naps and summer easy living. A peaceful retreat from the trials of childhood. A safe little cocoon of grandparent love.
The patio was surrounded by grass filled with clover and cut off dandelions. Papa didn’t spray chemicals on his lawn. He kept the grass short, but didn’t worry about the occasional weed. He didn’t trim the edges or bag the clippings. In a nutshell, he didn’t obsess over his lawn like suburbanites tend to do nowadays. In his mind, lawns were for playing, growing new creations and enjoying summer evenings.
On the edge of the fenced in yard was a brown and khaki green hammock trimmed with a white fringe. Flower gardens next to the fence were designed in a wild, cottage style. No Type A flowers were allowed. No severely shaped bushes could be found in this yard. Instead, towering fir trees overlooked patches of unrestrained black eyed susans. Overgrown bushes blocked the view from 3rd Avenue. Bird baths and feeders kept a supply of happy well-nourished birds for us to enjoy.
Beyond the fenced-in yard, Papa and Grandma’s land kept going, a child’s paradise. Neighbors were spread out with large unfenced property and impressive vegetable gardens that generations of today shy away from. Papa had cherry trees, raspberries, blueberries and a big square garden just for veggies. He always parked his mint green Ford pick up, complete with a hard top over the bed, right next to a huge weeping willow tree. Usually the tree’s branches hung straight down to the ground, making a wonderful hideout for my brother and me. But, one year, we arrived to find the branches cut half-way up, obliterating our hideout. The pathetic tree looked like a supermodel after being talked into a hideous bob-shaped haircut.
The sky was clear and cobalt. No haze or pollution in this little town of 2000 folks. A gentle breeze drifted off the lake, disturbing the wind-chimes. Its tinkering sounds always made me feel lazy in the sun. Lady Bug, Grandma’s little, white yap-free poodle snoozed in the sun. And soon I would be too. The house was quiet with senior citizen naps and summer easy living. A peaceful retreat from the trials of childhood. A safe little cocoon of grandparent love.
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