In room 112, the drapes were closed against the noon day sun. In futility, light tried to seep in along the gaps of the heavy polyester beige curtains, almost as if the sunshine ached to fill some of the void and lessen the gloom for the sole occupant inside.
Marcus sat in a vinyl rocker next to his bed. On the opposite wall was a dresser that had a digital clock and a wicker tray holding several small pill bottles. One small television was anchored to the wall across from his twin bed. The room was sparsely decorated, even for an antiseptic assisted living center. This particular center tried the modern approach of mimicking the residents’ former homes. The multipurpose room was now called a community living room, complete with a fireplace, bookshelves and cozy seating arrangements. The dining room had warm colors and intimate lights. But, the inviting décor couldn’t eliminate the sterile smell or erase the many wheelchairs and walkers that cluttered the building; although the thought was nice and showed some consideration for the harrowing transition of losing one’s home and independence.
Marcus had no use for homey details or for the centers’ many irritating activities. He didn’t want to socialize because he didn’t want folks in his business. At 83 years old and married 3 times, he felt the need to keep private details private. And he absolutely did not want anyone snooping around his many failed business ventures and severed relations with all six of his children. Life had disappointed him. There was no point in whining about it to others, or God forbid, eliciting anyone’s sympathy.
Marcus rarely got visitors, but earlier today, his granddaughter came. Carisa was 24 years old with short cropped blond hair and aquamarine eyes. He was fairly certain she got her beauty from her mother, a woman his third son was lucky to convince to the altar. Marcus didn’t know much about Carisa. He stopped paying attention to grandchildren quite a while ago, much to the relief of his children and ex-wives. So, he was curious about this unexpected visit.
Sighing in his rocker, Marcus rested his head on his hand, and reflected on his conversation with Carisa. It had been awkward with long silences and went along very superficially until Marcus could stand it no longer and demanded to know her reason for coming.
Carisa hesitated, and tried to speak. She seemed at a loss for words, fumbling for the right message. Finally she said, “I guess I wanted to see if you are as bad as they say you are.”
“Who says?”
“Well, everyone. My parents, grandma, Aunt Krista, Uncle Dan. They’ve made you out to be some hideous creature. I just couldn’t believe that my own grandpa could be so awful,” she said softy, staring down at her fingers wrapped in a tight ball.
“And what did you discover during this little field trip? Did I live up to their damnation?” Marcus said wryly.
Carisa stared at him for a moment. Then her face softened. “No,” she finally answered. “You don’t seem nearly as scary in real life as you do in those stories.”
Marcus chuckled. “Well, honey. I am an old man. Some of my fight is gone. But the catalogue of my betrayals is long and, I admit gut wrenching. If you opened it up and read any page, you would instantly know why my family loathes me. And, you would walk out that door and never come see me again.”
Carisa smiled, got off the edge of his bed and bent down to kiss his cheek. It had been years since Marcus had been kissed and he was flooded with memories of how good it felt to receive affection.
“I’ll be back. Keep the catalogue to yourself.”
Thinking back to her visit, Marcus shook his head at her naiveté. But he shuffled over to the window and opened the curtains to the noon day sun.
Showing posts with label Jen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Jen. Show all posts
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Lost in the shadows of a time past
I sit silent and forlorn on a dusty shelf in the basement. Long ago, I developed that dank, musty smell. Soon my thin delicate pages will meld together, a result of moldy adhesiveness.
I used to have a place of honor in this home. I sat proudly on an intricately carved cherry wood bookshelf in the living room, near the piano. Rarely a day went by that I was not opened and thumbed through. I was noticed when I was misplaced, and worried over when I once went missing and was ultimately found under Timmy’s bed. That was how much they needed me.
I miss being needed. I helped four Peterson children write essays, conduct research projects, and participate in science fairs. I felt their hands grow from pudgy kindergartners playing “school” with me as their favorite prop, to the strong broad hands of high schoolers digesting my pertinent knowledge.
I’ve heard the horror stories. My comrades have been sold at flea markets for $1.00. Many of us end up in model homes, solely for decorative effect. Apparently, leather bound books stacked sedately on end tables are currently the rage in home aesthetics. I guess it is better than where I am now. At least I’d have some purpose. The internet, with its instant overload of information has reduced me to a dusty research dinosaur, lost in the shadows of a time past.
I used to have a place of honor in this home. I sat proudly on an intricately carved cherry wood bookshelf in the living room, near the piano. Rarely a day went by that I was not opened and thumbed through. I was noticed when I was misplaced, and worried over when I once went missing and was ultimately found under Timmy’s bed. That was how much they needed me.
I miss being needed. I helped four Peterson children write essays, conduct research projects, and participate in science fairs. I felt their hands grow from pudgy kindergartners playing “school” with me as their favorite prop, to the strong broad hands of high schoolers digesting my pertinent knowledge.
I’ve heard the horror stories. My comrades have been sold at flea markets for $1.00. Many of us end up in model homes, solely for decorative effect. Apparently, leather bound books stacked sedately on end tables are currently the rage in home aesthetics. I guess it is better than where I am now. At least I’d have some purpose. The internet, with its instant overload of information has reduced me to a dusty research dinosaur, lost in the shadows of a time past.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
They told me it would be like this
Something warm was dripping down Angie’s right arm. It slithered slowly and methodically down to her elbow where it dripped onto her khaki pants. She closed her eyes, too worn out to investigate. For the past 6 weeks, there had not been a day where some liquid did not expel from an orifice. In these blurry weeks, she had become well acquainted with various bodily fluids, some she never knew of before.
Before. It seemed so long ago. There was BC (before child) and AC (after child). BC was sleeping in on the weekends, dinners out, night clubs, plays, concerts, good sex. AC was sleepless nights, diapers, breast pumping, and bewitching hours where the baby cried for no obvious good reason. She probably realized she didn’t exactly win the Mommy lottery.
Angie had planned for this baby. At 34 years old, she had a respectable amount of maturity. She read all the books, took all the classes and faithfully swallowed every prenatal vitamin. But all those books amounted to horse manure when it came to preparing a new mom for the realities of newborn rearing. When she was pregnant, Angie had envisioned herself cuddling a peacefully sleeping baby; one with dark long eyelashes and full rosebud lips. Angie would be wearing a white cotton nightie, free of baby mucus, one strap slightly off her shoulder, her long chestnut hair slightly rumpled and cascading onto her clean smooth pillow. Basically Victoria’s Secret meets Earth Mother. She would be a natural. She and the baby would gaze adoringly at each other while she nursed perfectly.
In reality, Angie's hair was falling out in clumps, her eyes were puffy and lined from lack of sleep and stress. She lived in a stained gray sweatshirt and elastic pants, her belly still protruding over the waistband. The baby had two modes: screaming at the top of her lungs or projectile spit up.
Angie ruefully smiled as she remembered how her mom and older sister, as well as quite a few co-workers offered to organize postpartum meals for her. Angie had scoffed at this idea. There would be plenty of time to make wholesome meals while the baby slept contently in her lavender Moses basket. In fact, Angie informed them, she would love to meet them out for lunch or coffee. The baby would be quite happy being held at the table while they all caught up on each others’ lives.
The women’s sidelong glances and snorts of sarcasm should have been a clue. A few of them tried to set her straight before her due date, but she refused to take their advice seriously. “They told me it would be like this. Exhausting, overwhelming and frankly disgusting,” Angie muttered to herself as she wiped up baby spit up from her pants and arm. Thank God they did, because if they hadn’t, she would have felt like an utter failure, like the only woman in the world to have breakdowns over nursing and colic; the one freak woman who didn’t instantly love motherhood and bond effortlessly with her infant. Without these wise women kindly knocking her down a few notches, Angie would have kicked herself relentlessly for not living up to the unattainable.
Before. It seemed so long ago. There was BC (before child) and AC (after child). BC was sleeping in on the weekends, dinners out, night clubs, plays, concerts, good sex. AC was sleepless nights, diapers, breast pumping, and bewitching hours where the baby cried for no obvious good reason. She probably realized she didn’t exactly win the Mommy lottery.
Angie had planned for this baby. At 34 years old, she had a respectable amount of maturity. She read all the books, took all the classes and faithfully swallowed every prenatal vitamin. But all those books amounted to horse manure when it came to preparing a new mom for the realities of newborn rearing. When she was pregnant, Angie had envisioned herself cuddling a peacefully sleeping baby; one with dark long eyelashes and full rosebud lips. Angie would be wearing a white cotton nightie, free of baby mucus, one strap slightly off her shoulder, her long chestnut hair slightly rumpled and cascading onto her clean smooth pillow. Basically Victoria’s Secret meets Earth Mother. She would be a natural. She and the baby would gaze adoringly at each other while she nursed perfectly.
In reality, Angie's hair was falling out in clumps, her eyes were puffy and lined from lack of sleep and stress. She lived in a stained gray sweatshirt and elastic pants, her belly still protruding over the waistband. The baby had two modes: screaming at the top of her lungs or projectile spit up.
Angie ruefully smiled as she remembered how her mom and older sister, as well as quite a few co-workers offered to organize postpartum meals for her. Angie had scoffed at this idea. There would be plenty of time to make wholesome meals while the baby slept contently in her lavender Moses basket. In fact, Angie informed them, she would love to meet them out for lunch or coffee. The baby would be quite happy being held at the table while they all caught up on each others’ lives.
The women’s sidelong glances and snorts of sarcasm should have been a clue. A few of them tried to set her straight before her due date, but she refused to take their advice seriously. “They told me it would be like this. Exhausting, overwhelming and frankly disgusting,” Angie muttered to herself as she wiped up baby spit up from her pants and arm. Thank God they did, because if they hadn’t, she would have felt like an utter failure, like the only woman in the world to have breakdowns over nursing and colic; the one freak woman who didn’t instantly love motherhood and bond effortlessly with her infant. Without these wise women kindly knocking her down a few notches, Angie would have kicked herself relentlessly for not living up to the unattainable.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Write about broken bones
I’ve never had a broken bone. Not a cast, not a stitch, not a single trip to the emergency room. My old cautious soul and hindering need to keep both feet on the floor have guided me through almost four decades of unremarkable health history. Sure, I’m grateful for a thin medical file, but I can’t help but wonder what exhilaration has alluded me as I let worry trump living.
On my bike, I brake all the way down the hill rather than let the winder rush through my hair. When I hike, I opt for the well traveled trail. I refuse all but the most infantile amusement park rides and only took a passing try at ice skating before an anxious inner voice cautioned me back into my tennis shoes. Instead of thinking “What might happen if?” I now think “What did I miss?” Maybe I would have wound up writhing in pain on the ice, or maybe I would have experienced an incredible feeling of joy as I glided across it. As I get older, I am resigned. I’ll never be a thrill seeker, but I regret my hesitations.
Perhaps I am being idealistic and placing way too much responsibility for my happiness on physical pursuits, but my fear of broken bones has led me to a rather constricting way of life. I don’t want to miss out on carnival rides or mountain biking with my son. Most of all, I don’t want to shackle him with fear of getting hurt.
In my next 40 years, I hope I can shake this apprehension, just a little. I hear roller blades are coming back into fashion.
On my bike, I brake all the way down the hill rather than let the winder rush through my hair. When I hike, I opt for the well traveled trail. I refuse all but the most infantile amusement park rides and only took a passing try at ice skating before an anxious inner voice cautioned me back into my tennis shoes. Instead of thinking “What might happen if?” I now think “What did I miss?” Maybe I would have wound up writhing in pain on the ice, or maybe I would have experienced an incredible feeling of joy as I glided across it. As I get older, I am resigned. I’ll never be a thrill seeker, but I regret my hesitations.
Perhaps I am being idealistic and placing way too much responsibility for my happiness on physical pursuits, but my fear of broken bones has led me to a rather constricting way of life. I don’t want to miss out on carnival rides or mountain biking with my son. Most of all, I don’t want to shackle him with fear of getting hurt.
In my next 40 years, I hope I can shake this apprehension, just a little. I hear roller blades are coming back into fashion.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Driving through the fog
Pulling an all nighter on the road, his eyes bloodshot and blurry, Jimmy encountered a thick bank of fog at the Arkansas line. His shoulders sagged under extreme fatigue and he rubbed his sleep-filled eyes. The fog seemed to ridicule him, one more hazard to endure after a night of dodging drunk drivers, potential road kill and unnerving sharp curves.
He had one more leg on his tri-state haul and needed to make it to Clarksville, TN by 3:00 that afternoon. There was no time for sleep or dense fog. Jimmy gritted his teeth and trudged on. He used to enjoy the freedom and independence of long-haul trucking, but middle age was creeping in, causing his body to protest from the sedentary nature of the job. Years ago, this gig helped extinguish the last remaining embers of his marriage. He hardly ever saw his boys anymore. He had become every country song cliché. Not an inspiring goal.
Weak morning light was trying to creep in, but was being beaten down by the oppressive gloom. Pine trees looked ominous. Every landmark was obscured in thick pea soup. Suddenly, Jimmy tensed and took his foot off the gas. On the shoulder was a dark figure, dancing and fluttering on the gravel. Jimmy strained his eyes for a better look, feeling cold sweat breaking out on his skin and his heartbeat quickening. But the figure disappeared as Jimmy was almost upon it. Slowly he realized that other creatures began to take shape in the mist, unidentifiable, some wide, some petite, some crouched near the ground, some floating just above the dirt.
Jimmy chuckled to himself. He was a seasoned driver, not the least bit green. So why was his mind toying with him? As he rumbled down the highway, he grew accustom to the fog images, He rather enjoyed their company. Soon, Jimmy was almost hypnotized by the cloudy blur enveloping him. As he was lulled by the whine of the tires on the pavement and by his sleep deprived brain, one fog companion inexplicably captured his attention. Its movements were agitated and jerky, not like the delicate wafting dances of the others. Jimmy snapped to, alert just in time to swerve back into his lane, narrowly missing a pale green Ford pick-up coming round the curve. The pick-up driver angrily blasted his horn. Feeling queasy from his near miss, Jimmy frantically searched in his rear view mirror for the creature that warned him of impending danger. But, like the others, it has been consumed by the shadows.
He had one more leg on his tri-state haul and needed to make it to Clarksville, TN by 3:00 that afternoon. There was no time for sleep or dense fog. Jimmy gritted his teeth and trudged on. He used to enjoy the freedom and independence of long-haul trucking, but middle age was creeping in, causing his body to protest from the sedentary nature of the job. Years ago, this gig helped extinguish the last remaining embers of his marriage. He hardly ever saw his boys anymore. He had become every country song cliché. Not an inspiring goal.
Weak morning light was trying to creep in, but was being beaten down by the oppressive gloom. Pine trees looked ominous. Every landmark was obscured in thick pea soup. Suddenly, Jimmy tensed and took his foot off the gas. On the shoulder was a dark figure, dancing and fluttering on the gravel. Jimmy strained his eyes for a better look, feeling cold sweat breaking out on his skin and his heartbeat quickening. But the figure disappeared as Jimmy was almost upon it. Slowly he realized that other creatures began to take shape in the mist, unidentifiable, some wide, some petite, some crouched near the ground, some floating just above the dirt.
Jimmy chuckled to himself. He was a seasoned driver, not the least bit green. So why was his mind toying with him? As he rumbled down the highway, he grew accustom to the fog images, He rather enjoyed their company. Soon, Jimmy was almost hypnotized by the cloudy blur enveloping him. As he was lulled by the whine of the tires on the pavement and by his sleep deprived brain, one fog companion inexplicably captured his attention. Its movements were agitated and jerky, not like the delicate wafting dances of the others. Jimmy snapped to, alert just in time to swerve back into his lane, narrowly missing a pale green Ford pick-up coming round the curve. The pick-up driver angrily blasted his horn. Feeling queasy from his near miss, Jimmy frantically searched in his rear view mirror for the creature that warned him of impending danger. But, like the others, it has been consumed by the shadows.
Monday, June 27, 2011
"What will die with me when I die...."
“I don’t make many requests. I hate to be a burden. Isn’t that what the elderly always seem to say? And when they say it, their tone is so wistful, that anyone who is even half listening should know that yes, they do want to be someone’s burden, because that would mean they were not alone in the world, as their dying lights flicker in the cold draft of an imminent end.
But, I am being honest. I’ve always been independent. I dislike the thought of leaning on anyone. I’ve always just needed Viv and me. We were introduced when I was 10 years old and feeling left out, the only girl in a family of four boys. Gramma Rose sensed my discontentment and gave me Viv. She used to be hers, until rheumatoid arthritis gnarled Gramma’s hands into silence.
When Gramma placed Viv in my hands, I knew I had found the extension of me. With Viv, my soul sang out, my spirit danced among the strings, rosin wafting into the air as my finger raced up and down the fingerboard, my bow sliding effortlessly, vibrations producing beauty. Viv was polished, golden brown, with a smooth neck and a delicate scroll. She was made to nestle under my chin, resting on my left shoulder contently, the way newborns meld into their mothers.
I played Viv for decades, at family affairs, concerts, for my students, even for perfect strangers battling life’s upheavals. Together we were a force and we tried to give back a little gloriousness in an otherwise bleak world. With Viv, I was confident, interesting, the object of envy. Without Viv, I would have been a lost child in a boisterous family, just along for the ride as everyone else heartily accomplished life. Viv made me……..well, me.
I haven’t played Viv for 6 weeks. Oh I know, what’s six weeks? It isn’t really all that long. But for me it seems like an eternity. And when you’re in my situation, it really is an eternity. Viv is quiet now, anticipating my upcoming departure. She lies in an elongated violin case, burgundy velvet on the inside, dull black with gathering dust on the outside. In the pitch black of her isolation, she waits to be remembered.
How fitting, that we will both be sent off in such similar fashion.”
But, I am being honest. I’ve always been independent. I dislike the thought of leaning on anyone. I’ve always just needed Viv and me. We were introduced when I was 10 years old and feeling left out, the only girl in a family of four boys. Gramma Rose sensed my discontentment and gave me Viv. She used to be hers, until rheumatoid arthritis gnarled Gramma’s hands into silence.
When Gramma placed Viv in my hands, I knew I had found the extension of me. With Viv, my soul sang out, my spirit danced among the strings, rosin wafting into the air as my finger raced up and down the fingerboard, my bow sliding effortlessly, vibrations producing beauty. Viv was polished, golden brown, with a smooth neck and a delicate scroll. She was made to nestle under my chin, resting on my left shoulder contently, the way newborns meld into their mothers.
I played Viv for decades, at family affairs, concerts, for my students, even for perfect strangers battling life’s upheavals. Together we were a force and we tried to give back a little gloriousness in an otherwise bleak world. With Viv, I was confident, interesting, the object of envy. Without Viv, I would have been a lost child in a boisterous family, just along for the ride as everyone else heartily accomplished life. Viv made me……..well, me.
I haven’t played Viv for 6 weeks. Oh I know, what’s six weeks? It isn’t really all that long. But for me it seems like an eternity. And when you’re in my situation, it really is an eternity. Viv is quiet now, anticipating my upcoming departure. She lies in an elongated violin case, burgundy velvet on the inside, dull black with gathering dust on the outside. In the pitch black of her isolation, she waits to be remembered.
How fitting, that we will both be sent off in such similar fashion.”
Friday, June 24, 2011
Write about possibilities
Never quite satisfied, a constant nudge from status quo, I will not accept stagnation.
In the past, adorned possibilities expired. Fear and doubt left them unopened in a box. I chide myself and resolve to improve.
I wonder; what creates that quest for betterment and change? Some believe it is circumstance. Some attribute will and determination.
Outside my door is a plethora of opportunity, the unforeseen and the anticipated.
Decisions must be weighed, risks calculated, paths chosen.
So I dream, tingly with expectation. I pursue relentlessly, challenging myself to evolve, no longer content to tread tranquil waters. I want to propel myself into white caps.
For how muted would life be without the thrill of possibilities.
In the past, adorned possibilities expired. Fear and doubt left them unopened in a box. I chide myself and resolve to improve.
I wonder; what creates that quest for betterment and change? Some believe it is circumstance. Some attribute will and determination.
Outside my door is a plethora of opportunity, the unforeseen and the anticipated.
Decisions must be weighed, risks calculated, paths chosen.
So I dream, tingly with expectation. I pursue relentlessly, challenging myself to evolve, no longer content to tread tranquil waters. I want to propel myself into white caps.
For how muted would life be without the thrill of possibilities.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
She was painting her nails
Jace walked slovenly down the cracked sidewalk, his shoulders hunched over, feet shuffling on the cement. He had on an Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt, three leather rope bracelets on his left wrist, and ripped faded jeans that gave him the appearance of hipness but with an air of fashion indifference. He was too hip to care that he was hip.
Behind his aviator shades were eyes filled with pity…..for any sucker who had to spend his high school years in this dump of a town. After Jace’s mom went ballistic over some minor thing with booze and bombing grades, she sent him to live with his grandfather; probably so she could make the moves on her latest target. There had been a string of men through their front door since his parents divorced when Jace was seven. His mom was usually in a drama of her own making, trying to get the guy and then trying to pick up the pieces after the guy inevitably dumped her. Jace used to help her glue those pieces back together, but after a few years it got tiresome. Keggers, girls and other alcohol filled pursuits distracted him until he and his mom basically shared an address, not much more.
So, no surprise that she decided he was getting in the way of her fun. The shocker was living with an adult who actually gives a rip. Suddenly, Jace had a curfew, chores to do and a car-free existence. It was prison after years of wild freedom. Grandpa was ornery as they come and took no guff from “youngsters”. He was going to whip Jace into shape come hell or high water.
Jace’s only escapes were “walks about town”. Grandpa admired exercise, said it was good for the mind and body. So, everyday, sometimes a few times a day, Jace walked the sleepy summer streets, bordered by big maple trees and craftsman two stories with wide covered porches.
Shuffling onto 3rd Street, he found something intriguing. At the corner yellow house, sitting on the front porch, was a girl about 15 years old, with straight blonde hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She was wearing a tank top and cut offs, her long tan legs propped up on the porch railing. She was painting her nails, her head bent in concentration. But as he passed, he noticed her eyes shift towards him. It was almost imperceptible. She moved no other muscle in her body, apparently too cool to acknowledge his presence.
He checked her out in his periphery. Thinking she was safe from detection, she turned and watched him, blowing on her wet nails and tossing her head, causing her silky hair to cascade over one shoulder. Jace smiled to himself as he continued down the street, still feeling her eyes on his back. Maybe this summer wasn’t going to be so bad.
Behind his aviator shades were eyes filled with pity…..for any sucker who had to spend his high school years in this dump of a town. After Jace’s mom went ballistic over some minor thing with booze and bombing grades, she sent him to live with his grandfather; probably so she could make the moves on her latest target. There had been a string of men through their front door since his parents divorced when Jace was seven. His mom was usually in a drama of her own making, trying to get the guy and then trying to pick up the pieces after the guy inevitably dumped her. Jace used to help her glue those pieces back together, but after a few years it got tiresome. Keggers, girls and other alcohol filled pursuits distracted him until he and his mom basically shared an address, not much more.
So, no surprise that she decided he was getting in the way of her fun. The shocker was living with an adult who actually gives a rip. Suddenly, Jace had a curfew, chores to do and a car-free existence. It was prison after years of wild freedom. Grandpa was ornery as they come and took no guff from “youngsters”. He was going to whip Jace into shape come hell or high water.
Jace’s only escapes were “walks about town”. Grandpa admired exercise, said it was good for the mind and body. So, everyday, sometimes a few times a day, Jace walked the sleepy summer streets, bordered by big maple trees and craftsman two stories with wide covered porches.
Shuffling onto 3rd Street, he found something intriguing. At the corner yellow house, sitting on the front porch, was a girl about 15 years old, with straight blonde hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She was wearing a tank top and cut offs, her long tan legs propped up on the porch railing. She was painting her nails, her head bent in concentration. But as he passed, he noticed her eyes shift towards him. It was almost imperceptible. She moved no other muscle in her body, apparently too cool to acknowledge his presence.
He checked her out in his periphery. Thinking she was safe from detection, she turned and watched him, blowing on her wet nails and tossing her head, causing her silky hair to cascade over one shoulder. Jace smiled to himself as he continued down the street, still feeling her eyes on his back. Maybe this summer wasn’t going to be so bad.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Write about a woolen shawl
Tessie peered over the edge of the tree house ledge. Dobbs, Mikey, Will and the others looked like ants, scurrying around, staring up at her, daring her to do it. As usual, Dobbs was the ringleader. He taunted her, calling her chicken and wussy girl. He was sweating and breathing hard in the Tennessee summer sun. As he inhaled and exhaled, the perpetual gray-green mass of gooey snot in his left nostril heaved and hoed, threatening to finally dislodge and go flying across space. Mikey was a little more civilized. He and Will were brothers and lived down the road. Tessie’s mom and their mom were best friends, so the boys were decent to her, but when Dobbs came around, they had to show it up, strutting around like royal roosters, cocky and cool.
Today, they shaded their eyes, peering at her in the noontime glare. “Just call it quits and go home to your mama!” Mikey yelled up. “Everyone knows you were fibbing anyway!”
“Was not!” Tessie screamed back. “Gaga told me so and Gaga doesn’t lie!”
“You sound as crazy as that ol’ loon right about now! No wonder you got no friends. You as nuts as they come!” Dobbs spit at Tessie.
Tessie felt tears sting her eyes. Gaga had given her the magic shawl a few years ago, when Tessie went to school for the first time and was so scared. Gaga had wrapped her up in the shawl and told her the shawl would help her do wonderful things. With it, she said, Tessie could do anything she set her mind to.
Tessie did have her doubts. After all, the shawl was scratchy and smelled musty, like it had been sitting in a trunk down in the basement. It wasn’t even all that pretty, certainly not colors Tessie would have picked. Instead of purple and soft green and blue, the shawl was gray, brown and cream with zigzag stripes and several little holes where the yarn appeared to be falling apart.
But Gaga promised, and Gaga didn’t tell a lie. Tessie clung to that belief as kids poked fun at her for always wearing the shawl, even in the heart of summer. Her mama tried to coax her out of it, but she couldn’t leave it home. What if something extraordinary was supposed to happen that day, but she couldn’t do it because she didn’t have her shawl? Better to be safe than sorry.
The kids, lead by Dobbs, kept up the teasing until Tessie told them she would prove to them that the shawl was magic. She decided she would fly, jumping off the tree house, using the magic in her shawl to send her soaring. Word spread through the little town and soon about 15 kids showed up to see her feat.
It was now or never. And, it would be worth it to shut Dobbs up forever.
Tessie took a deep breath, whispered, “Gaga promised” and jumped.
Today, they shaded their eyes, peering at her in the noontime glare. “Just call it quits and go home to your mama!” Mikey yelled up. “Everyone knows you were fibbing anyway!”
“Was not!” Tessie screamed back. “Gaga told me so and Gaga doesn’t lie!”
“You sound as crazy as that ol’ loon right about now! No wonder you got no friends. You as nuts as they come!” Dobbs spit at Tessie.
Tessie felt tears sting her eyes. Gaga had given her the magic shawl a few years ago, when Tessie went to school for the first time and was so scared. Gaga had wrapped her up in the shawl and told her the shawl would help her do wonderful things. With it, she said, Tessie could do anything she set her mind to.
Tessie did have her doubts. After all, the shawl was scratchy and smelled musty, like it had been sitting in a trunk down in the basement. It wasn’t even all that pretty, certainly not colors Tessie would have picked. Instead of purple and soft green and blue, the shawl was gray, brown and cream with zigzag stripes and several little holes where the yarn appeared to be falling apart.
But Gaga promised, and Gaga didn’t tell a lie. Tessie clung to that belief as kids poked fun at her for always wearing the shawl, even in the heart of summer. Her mama tried to coax her out of it, but she couldn’t leave it home. What if something extraordinary was supposed to happen that day, but she couldn’t do it because she didn’t have her shawl? Better to be safe than sorry.
The kids, lead by Dobbs, kept up the teasing until Tessie told them she would prove to them that the shawl was magic. She decided she would fly, jumping off the tree house, using the magic in her shawl to send her soaring. Word spread through the little town and soon about 15 kids showed up to see her feat.
It was now or never. And, it would be worth it to shut Dobbs up forever.
Tessie took a deep breath, whispered, “Gaga promised” and jumped.
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Inside the circle
Inside the circle that gathers at 3:00 every Tuesday, forcible emotions wrangle, bouncing off the fragile periphery. At times, their intensity is violent, almost like they are trying to smash open a confining boundary. No one knows what storm will brew on any particular Tuesday, but as life charges on and death never takes a breather, it is a given that new faces will appear.
Graciela lost her mom two days before her 10th birthday. At age nine, Dakota lost his granddad, the closest man he will ever have to a father. They are the newest faces and they sit; their chairs back a little from the rest of the circle, as if not fully reconciled with the fact that something precious has been stolen from them.
Veteran members lead the way with stories of little sprigs of hope: laughing after a home run in kickball, making a wise crack about the school cafeteria’s mac and cheese. Veterans always seem shocked when a seed of contentment pokes its head through the maelstrom. But, hope is easily eradicated with guilt about levity. In their minds, having a light hearted moment might mean they have forgotten their loved ones or loved them less. They feel resigned to being sad all the time.
But inside the circle, they get reassurance, knowledge and power; so they might mend the path that was interrupted by death and get back to the business of a flourishing childhood. Graciela and Dakota are light years away from flourishing. Grief is still sharp, like a piercing cracked rib that robs them of stamina. Grief is their constant companion. It is all they can see ahead, behind, and next to them.
When it is Graciela’s turn to speak, she is barely above a whisper. Her head is down, her dark hair a cascading cloak hiding her features. She tells her name, nothing more. The circle waits patiently. Sometimes it can take up to 5 minutes before a child can speak further. Graciela doesn’t speak again on this Tuesday. But, eventually she will.
Dakota doesn’t speak either. He abruptly leaves before his turn, throws open the door and kicks over a garbage can in the hall. The circle hears the shrill clatter of metal on the linoleum. Sadly, there is nothing new here; just a boy who is flailing and lost, his anchor no longer in this world. In time, the circle will become his safe haven. It is the most difficult place but yet the most beautiful place he will ever have the courage to be.
Graciela lost her mom two days before her 10th birthday. At age nine, Dakota lost his granddad, the closest man he will ever have to a father. They are the newest faces and they sit; their chairs back a little from the rest of the circle, as if not fully reconciled with the fact that something precious has been stolen from them.
Veteran members lead the way with stories of little sprigs of hope: laughing after a home run in kickball, making a wise crack about the school cafeteria’s mac and cheese. Veterans always seem shocked when a seed of contentment pokes its head through the maelstrom. But, hope is easily eradicated with guilt about levity. In their minds, having a light hearted moment might mean they have forgotten their loved ones or loved them less. They feel resigned to being sad all the time.
But inside the circle, they get reassurance, knowledge and power; so they might mend the path that was interrupted by death and get back to the business of a flourishing childhood. Graciela and Dakota are light years away from flourishing. Grief is still sharp, like a piercing cracked rib that robs them of stamina. Grief is their constant companion. It is all they can see ahead, behind, and next to them.
When it is Graciela’s turn to speak, she is barely above a whisper. Her head is down, her dark hair a cascading cloak hiding her features. She tells her name, nothing more. The circle waits patiently. Sometimes it can take up to 5 minutes before a child can speak further. Graciela doesn’t speak again on this Tuesday. But, eventually she will.
Dakota doesn’t speak either. He abruptly leaves before his turn, throws open the door and kicks over a garbage can in the hall. The circle hears the shrill clatter of metal on the linoleum. Sadly, there is nothing new here; just a boy who is flailing and lost, his anchor no longer in this world. In time, the circle will become his safe haven. It is the most difficult place but yet the most beautiful place he will ever have the courage to be.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Wrtie about taking a nap
After lunch, my belly content and my body slowing down from its morning high of productiveness, I climb the stairs. My four-legged companion, used to this daily ritual, has beaten me to my bedroom. Cleo is a nap’s greatest champion. I find her curled on her side, against the pillows at the head of the bed. She does that weird dog thing where she snores with one eye open, warily watching my every move, waiting to see if I will make her budge. Sometimes I do. Today, I ignore the dog smell and the residual black fur as I slide into cool sheets. I find myself instantly relaxing, my jaw unclenching, shoulders going slack.
Thoughts amble through my mind, eventually growing hazy and vague. I am aware of the curtain gently stirring in the summer breeze, and the distant sounds of kids playing. My lightweight cotton blanket is the perfect amount of pressure on my legs. My pillow, lumpy from years of bunching, is cradling my head. Cleo has now transitioned into slow rhythmic breathing that is sustaining and soothing. How could I not drift off to sleep with her accompaniment?
One final twitch before my body succumbs to sleep, leaving that disorienting phase between awake and unaware. Ah, bliss. And then……..the damn phone rings, piercing the peace. I jerk upright, my heart pounding. I am sure that it will explode out of my chest only to flop about the floor twitching and quivering. I inadvertently send Cleo crashing to the ground with a pitiful yelp. Gasping, I reach for the phone, answering it with a shaky breath.
“Hi Ma’am. This is AT & T calling to let you know about some wonderful new long distance plans you might be interested in.” I sigh and politely decline. I settle back down into my smooth sheets. Cleo has apparently forgiven me and jumps up, but opts for the foot of the bed, giving me a pointed look. Even as my heart rate slows down from its superhuman level, I know it is hopeless. My nap mode had been destroyed, not to be found again……until tomorrow.
Thoughts amble through my mind, eventually growing hazy and vague. I am aware of the curtain gently stirring in the summer breeze, and the distant sounds of kids playing. My lightweight cotton blanket is the perfect amount of pressure on my legs. My pillow, lumpy from years of bunching, is cradling my head. Cleo has now transitioned into slow rhythmic breathing that is sustaining and soothing. How could I not drift off to sleep with her accompaniment?
One final twitch before my body succumbs to sleep, leaving that disorienting phase between awake and unaware. Ah, bliss. And then……..the damn phone rings, piercing the peace. I jerk upright, my heart pounding. I am sure that it will explode out of my chest only to flop about the floor twitching and quivering. I inadvertently send Cleo crashing to the ground with a pitiful yelp. Gasping, I reach for the phone, answering it with a shaky breath.
“Hi Ma’am. This is AT & T calling to let you know about some wonderful new long distance plans you might be interested in.” I sigh and politely decline. I settle back down into my smooth sheets. Cleo has apparently forgiven me and jumps up, but opts for the foot of the bed, giving me a pointed look. Even as my heart rate slows down from its superhuman level, I know it is hopeless. My nap mode had been destroyed, not to be found again……until tomorrow.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Across the railroad tracks
“I told you it was hideous. I love that look of horror on your face. It was worth the two hour trip just to see it. You want to jump in the car and race back to Chicago, right? Get back to civilization, great dining, and culture.
There aren’t even stoplights in Le Roy. None are needed. Only 682 unfortunate souls call this place home. It’s not quaint. There are no bed and breakfasts tucked inside gingerbread houses or cozy wine tasting rooms soothing with jazz. However, the 7 Eleven is open 24 hours and is well stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon, petrified corn dogs and Frito Lay chips. One dark, dank bar is at the corner of Highway 150 and Route 47, the main drags in town. There you’ll find shag carpet on the walls, a sticky floor and worn out booths. Russ, the owner is usually behind the counter, plying the town’s pathetic with booze, starting at 11:00 every morning.
I heard this town used to be booming. The grain elevator buzzed with activity. Farmers were well to do and full of community spirit. The grange hall was the place to be for dancing on a Saturday night. Downtown had three clothing stores, a bank, and a family run market where you could put groceries on your tab. Charming, yes?
Yea, I know. You are asking yourself how I escaped this hellhole. Most of my classmates got pregnant. Some became waitresses at the Denny’s on I-74. You’ll still find “boys” from my class working in the fields, barely scraping by, their bodies physically broken, screaming for rest.
See where I am pointing? Across the railroad tracks? That dilapidated house with the peeling gray paint was my childhood home. It looks about the same; maybe a little worse now, but not much. It was never a looker. The whole place used to shake and the lights would blink when a freight train roared by, making its way out West. I would sit at my bedroom window watching it with envy as it chugged by. I would wonder where it was going, what it was carrying, who would be meeting it to unload its hidden cargo. I wanted out because even in little Le Roy, we were considered trash. Our yard was barren and cracked. We had 3 rusted nonworking cars on the side of the place and slew of uninvited cats. People talked about us. They crossed the street when my mother and I walked by, our heads down to avoid eye contact and questions. We were never a part of them.
But that house is my salvation. It is why I escaped. What went on in that house crept up on me at first, like an odorless gas. I wasn’t looking. My mind was off on the topic of boys who would never date me and how to curl my hair like Cindy Crawford. But, that one night, I had no choice. I had to look the monster square in the face. And I knew the time was now. I wasn’t ready to go, but I had to. Otherwise, I might never get out. I’d be resigned to living my mother’s life, God rest her poor soul. And that fate wasn’t good enough for me.”
There aren’t even stoplights in Le Roy. None are needed. Only 682 unfortunate souls call this place home. It’s not quaint. There are no bed and breakfasts tucked inside gingerbread houses or cozy wine tasting rooms soothing with jazz. However, the 7 Eleven is open 24 hours and is well stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon, petrified corn dogs and Frito Lay chips. One dark, dank bar is at the corner of Highway 150 and Route 47, the main drags in town. There you’ll find shag carpet on the walls, a sticky floor and worn out booths. Russ, the owner is usually behind the counter, plying the town’s pathetic with booze, starting at 11:00 every morning.
I heard this town used to be booming. The grain elevator buzzed with activity. Farmers were well to do and full of community spirit. The grange hall was the place to be for dancing on a Saturday night. Downtown had three clothing stores, a bank, and a family run market where you could put groceries on your tab. Charming, yes?
Yea, I know. You are asking yourself how I escaped this hellhole. Most of my classmates got pregnant. Some became waitresses at the Denny’s on I-74. You’ll still find “boys” from my class working in the fields, barely scraping by, their bodies physically broken, screaming for rest.
See where I am pointing? Across the railroad tracks? That dilapidated house with the peeling gray paint was my childhood home. It looks about the same; maybe a little worse now, but not much. It was never a looker. The whole place used to shake and the lights would blink when a freight train roared by, making its way out West. I would sit at my bedroom window watching it with envy as it chugged by. I would wonder where it was going, what it was carrying, who would be meeting it to unload its hidden cargo. I wanted out because even in little Le Roy, we were considered trash. Our yard was barren and cracked. We had 3 rusted nonworking cars on the side of the place and slew of uninvited cats. People talked about us. They crossed the street when my mother and I walked by, our heads down to avoid eye contact and questions. We were never a part of them.
But that house is my salvation. It is why I escaped. What went on in that house crept up on me at first, like an odorless gas. I wasn’t looking. My mind was off on the topic of boys who would never date me and how to curl my hair like Cindy Crawford. But, that one night, I had no choice. I had to look the monster square in the face. And I knew the time was now. I wasn’t ready to go, but I had to. Otherwise, I might never get out. I’d be resigned to living my mother’s life, God rest her poor soul. And that fate wasn’t good enough for me.”
Monday, June 6, 2011
While the world sleeps
I love the isolation of a black night. I feel invincible as I wander, creep, slink into the shadows, and duck out of the rare car’s illumination. There is something so powerful about being alert while the rest of the world is vulnerable and asleep. People, utterly defenseless, slumber away, thinking they are safely ensconced in their homes and beds. I prowl neighborhoods and break out in goose bumps when I see a cracked window, or better yet, try a random back door and find it unlocked. It is like being bestowed with a fine gift, so unexpected and yet so exhilarating.
Not to fear. I don’t really do anything indefensible during my nocturnal visits. I suppose if you awoke, you would scream bloody murder, maybe throw your lamp at me and try to grab the phone lying next to your bed. I would give you a good scare.
I don’t go on my jaunts to harm, only to challenge myself to drift in and out of others’ lives undetected. To enter a bedroom with its oblivious occupants, to hear their heavy breathing, to see them curled in the fetal position off in another world, gives me great pleasure. I have won. I have entered their private domains and have stood over them in their most helpless state. The moment is mine. I have the control to do anything. To me, there is no greater accomplishment.
But when daylight arrives, everything is transformed. The sunshine washes us in comforting warmth, erasing the anxieties and fears that arise late at night. All of our lives are on display, with us engineering what we want others to see. People are not real during the day. They are each playing a role. It is only at night when their true selves are allowed to come out and play without the constraints of self-made images. And that’s when they’ll find me, waiting for a chance to meet.
Not to fear. I don’t really do anything indefensible during my nocturnal visits. I suppose if you awoke, you would scream bloody murder, maybe throw your lamp at me and try to grab the phone lying next to your bed. I would give you a good scare.
I don’t go on my jaunts to harm, only to challenge myself to drift in and out of others’ lives undetected. To enter a bedroom with its oblivious occupants, to hear their heavy breathing, to see them curled in the fetal position off in another world, gives me great pleasure. I have won. I have entered their private domains and have stood over them in their most helpless state. The moment is mine. I have the control to do anything. To me, there is no greater accomplishment.
But when daylight arrives, everything is transformed. The sunshine washes us in comforting warmth, erasing the anxieties and fears that arise late at night. All of our lives are on display, with us engineering what we want others to see. People are not real during the day. They are each playing a role. It is only at night when their true selves are allowed to come out and play without the constraints of self-made images. And that’s when they’ll find me, waiting for a chance to meet.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
A Red Car
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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