Magnum Opus

Well, not really, but I did make the cake for my greatest work, my daughter. Unfortunately she is not going to be able to eat a bite of the underlying chocolate pound cake layers with chocolate truffle filling. Not even a nibble of the fondant covering or a single little flower. She has been diagnosed with gestational diabetes and combined with her asthma this has become a high risk pregnancy. She says not to worry, she's fine. I know she will be, but worry is the bread and butter of motherhood as she will find out come sometime in January. She says it will be February 2, Ground Hogs day, an Aquarius in the age of same. The time seems only a few deep breaths away.

Marc's parents are old hands at this, but as his Mom showed me the room she plans on making into a nursery for her first grandson, I heard the excitement in her voice. She now has 4 granddaughters, sweet and adorable children she dotes on, but this is a new day, the son of her son. I know exactly how she feels. She has planned a party for him, or as she stated, "to welcome Eva into the family". It is no secret that both she, and especially Marc's father are having a bit of a struggle coming to terms with choices Marc and Eva have made about not marrying, but they are practical people and will make the best of things.

Sunday morning I'm packing up my cake and heading for northern Virginia to meet the friends and family that will help nurture my grandson. Now looking at my choice of themes I am struck that I have picked it philosophically. The birds, free to fly but bound by love, the nest, fragile yet sturdy enough to weather the storm, and the tiny egg, their magnum opus, the center of their world.

ANGER (My rejected submission to the SUN)

Slamming the door in anger was not allowed in my home. The punishment was to be spanked, and then with deep shuttering sobs shaking my body, I was required to go back and close the door gently. Sometimes it took three or four repeats to make the closing sufficiently soft to suit my mother. I think I was about eleven when I finally learned the lesson that my anger would have to be expressed more covertly. I do not think it was the lesson my mother intended. It was around that age when I started stealing money from one of her many pocketbooks on an almost daily basis. She carried a different one each day, leaving a wealth of change jingling in the bottom of all the others. It was money she never missed, money I did not need, money she would have given me if I had been able to explain why I wanted it. I did not care to explain even if I had known why. I took it and spent it at the drug store on cherry fountain cokes or strawberry ice cream sundaes, often treating my friends too, the ones my mother told me really didn’t like me because I was whatever thing she was annoyed about at the time.

We were at eye level by the time I was eleven but I grew three inches in the next year, making her the smallest, but still the most terrifying person in my world. Although we never spoke a word about the changes happening in my body, my mother’s tight lipped disapproval seemed to increase as I morphed rapidly from child to woman. It was that summer that I finally stood defiant and stared her down the last time she ever dared to punish me physically. I did not sob or even speak. I waited until she was finished shouting her angry triad and hitting me, and then I walked quietly to my room and shut the door softly, just the way I had been taught. Behind that closed door I sat dry eyed and felt the power grow in me.

I became a stranger to my mother that day, as she did to me. It was not that moment alone, but the accumulation of blows both physical and emotional that made me close the door gently, my rage sucked inside. Since that time I have traveled many miles and years from my childhood home, often being self destructive, very rarely turning my anger outward. I never realized how much I let it control me until the spring day in 1994 when my sister called me and said, “I’m afraid I have some very bad news.” Although Mother had been ill, the death was unexpected. None of us believed a woman so strong and fierce could actually die, especially not during what her doctor said was a simple surgery. I was numb inside for many weeks, but pictures of that time come to me in dream-like memories.

My husband drove the twelve hours to the place I once called home. My children sat in the front of the van, frightened, while I lay silent and almost comatose in the back seat. I wish I could say I tried to find words to comfort them, but I was an empty husk, moving only mechanically, unable to even hear their loving attempts at condolences. Sometime later that evening I sat in the enormous bedroom my mother shared with her husband of fifty eight years and listened as my family tried to figure out how to arrange a funeral without Mother’s supervision. No one asked my opinion. I was the outsider, a role I deserved, but there in the middle of my chest I felt the old familiar anger at my mother for bringing me to this place with these feelings. Right beside the anger was the grief for the mother I always wanted, and hidden beneath it all was a terrible guilty relief that I never again had to hear her tell me why I was a failure.

Thousands of people who loved and revered my saintly Mother filed past her casket where she lay so tiny in death. She wore an unfamiliar blue suit, my brother’s choice of clothing. On her cold left hand was the diamond my father had given her for her 50th anniversary and on the right the Eastern Star ring I had never seen her wear in life. My sister had insisted the jewelry be buried with her. Somehow in seating people for the funeral my family and I ended up on the second row, with me on the far end, directly behind one of the giant columns of the First Baptist Church sanctuary, while my father, brother, sister and all their children sat in front. It was only later I realized I had still been praying that in this last goodbye I would somehow finally be a child beloved, cherished, asked to come to the altar rail and receive her blessing. The symbol would be lost on her of course, because kneeling in public was a scorned ritual of the Methodist Church that I had joined despite her objections.

As the time without her has slipped by, I have shed my anger a bit each year, like a snake letting go of its skin in order to grow. In those rare times when I have lost my temper with one of my three children I have done my worst by going to my room and slamming the door. The boys accepted it and left me alone, but it always made my daughter furious to hear the noise, the closing off of communication. I have come to understand that my resolve to never spank my children did not free me of the curse of my own childhood. The slamming of the door is no more helpful in teaching them to deal with their anger than the blows from my mother’s hand. I had to invent a way of showing love, and allowing anger, and letting my children know how amazing they are to me. In those areas where I have done badly I have gone, pride discarded, and asked their forgiveness. Hopefully I have not made them suffer too much because of my ignorance of mothering. I do not want to have to die to set them free.

Black Box Number 08-060

One Bad Mother Runner =>

It was a dreary rainy day in a long series of rainy

days when the cardboard box showed up on our front porch. It was wrapped loosely in a plastic bag and left there anonymously between the newly painted railing and the cat food bowl. If the door bell rang I never heard it, even though I was up at dawn and working quietly on the computer at my dining room table. My birthday had been the day before, but I was not expecting presents, early or late. I carried the package into the house, removed the damp plastic bag and sat the box on the hall table. There was nothing on it by way of identification but the 08-060 stamped on the return label, but I knew immediately what was inside. Later when my husband woke I mentioned to him casually that his father's earthy remains were sitting in the foyer. He gave no outward sign of interest. The day went by, and life continued to go on around the preacher's ashes as they waited, patient and oblivious.

Our daughter arrived late Thursday evening from Arlington. She came in exhausted from her long work day, the dark rainy drive, and the weight of the baby boy that dwells in anticipation inside of her swelling body. Against all reason she has come to run the Richmond half marathon on Saturday. She has somehow involved me in this mad scheme. I had hoped for weeks for a miracle that would stop me from having to participate. Far from doing extra training for the race like I should have, I have been more slack than usual. I really do not want to do this and I am aware that I am stubborn beyond reason. Rather than try to argue with a child who makes me look like a sheep by contrast, I took my best passive aggressive stance, thereby shooting myself in the foot.

Reality kicked in Friday afternoon as we headed out into a cold windy rain to collect our shirts and the timing devices for our shoes. Inside the arena we shook off the cold and got our bearings. Our names are on one of the giant tables on the wall along with our numbers, 12467 and 12468. We follow the maze of paths through the circus of vendors and health gurus. We bought shirts with amusing sayings on them, got bum packs to carry our cell phones and energy shots, and I waited while she got a chair massage. Amid the music and fanfare I pretended I was one of these lean athletic beings in the flush of youth. I have no mirror to tell me I am lying. That comes tomorrow.

Friday night I still hope we will have another day of monsoon rain on Saturday. I practice trying not to sound phony when I tell the girl how disappointed I am about the cancelation. My husband and I go out dancing Friday night for my birthday, dismissing the tut-tut of our daughter that I am breaking training. My new shoes twirl wonderfully well across the floor. A lady in the bathroom line recognizes me. "Oh" she says, "I remember you. You were here a few weeks ago and girl, you can dance! I love watching you." I laugh and thank her, tell her I practice every week religiously. At 11 the band is ending their second set and my husband insists we need to go home if I'm going to get up early tomorrow. I dance through the parking lot to "Johnny Be Good".

Saturday the day dawned misty, cool and "perfect for running" according to my girl. I woke when my daughter's cell went off in the bedroom next door. The clock said 5:37. She was chirping like a canary whose cage cover had just been removed. My stomach hurt as I pulled on my shirt that said, "This seemed like a good idea three months ago." As I pin on my 12467 bib I note grimly that 08-060 is sitting on the table below the mirror. Eva is already wearing 12468 with the "baby on board" sign she glued on last night. I make coffee for myself and some scrambled eggs for us all. Because he is so supportive of both of the crazy women in his life, my husband drove us downtown and dropped us off as close to 7th and Broad as he could get. Inside my head I keep hearing the echoing tin voice of the Borg mantra, "Resistance is futile."

We found our way to the starting corral and shivered for a few minutes until a sudden restlessness let us know it had begun. After about a half a mile we were spaced widely enough to start jogging. It was around the mile three mark when I slowed to a walk the first time. My daughter had been waiting for me to warm up enough to pick up the pace. I saw the first hill and somehow thought that if I went real fast on the down hill side the momentum would carry me over the top. Perhaps it would in cartoon world, but not for me, not this day. My feet seemed made of concrete, and the rest of the race is to be spent determining exactly how unprepared I am. Eva encouraged me by telling me bears were chasing me. I thought in my heart that a swift death from tooth and claw might be a blessing, but out loud I just gasp again that I am giving it all I have. Around mile ten I was doing a run/dance to the music of one of the many bands along the route when I heard the siren of the police escort for the man who was winning the full marathon. When he passed us the time clock on the pace car said 2:02. He ran with the same effort I use to attend a cocktail party, as perfec and beautiful a thing as I have ever seen.

I am inspired, and ever so briefly I run again until he has faded into the distance. Then the pain in my right foot and knee tell me I am neither a Kenyan nor am I 22. I slow to a walk again. I make brief stabs at the running every half mile or so as the cameras click and the zero body fat runners roll past with varying degrees of effort. The female winner surges by as I pass the Village on Grace Street, the bar where I used to hang every weekend when I was in my twenties. I wonder briefly why I never did anything like this then, but I remember immediately that my darling daughter had not yet been born. Even with the pain of every step I realize how blessed I am to have her in my life.

Turning the corner we head into the home stretch. Cary street lies before me, an easy gauntlet of screaming crowds, all downhill to the end. My girl and I start to run, ignoring the warnings our bodies are giving us. The crowd roars for someone, perhaps for her, perhaps for me, but I only care that it is almost over. She surges ahead at last, knowing she is safe to leave me, knowing I won't stop now. I lose sight of her as she speeds away and I push harder, past the man who has paced me for most of the race. Suddenly the orange bar is under my right foot and then my left. The clock is still under three hours when the buzzer rings us past. I try to stop, but I feel my knees buckle. A lady grabs me, holds me up briefly and puts a medallion around my neck. "Keep walking," she tells me. "Cool down." I take her advice and walk until I can stand still without toppling over. I find my husband in the crowd and hang on to him across the bars that block off the street.

As we trudge uphill to the car we are exhausted and every step is agony, but we are giddy with the endorphins, laughing and talking the tale into family legend. I tell my girl that the part that inspired me the most was going by the retirement home at Imperial Plaza and seeing the line of wheelchairs parked, the old eyes watching in envy. When we get home the first thing I spy is the box on the table labeled 08-060, my father-in-law's earthly remains. We take off out numbers and put them on the table beside him. Something about the juxtaposition makes me feel more alive.

The next day I got an email offering a discount for next year's race. I asked my daughter if she wanted to do it again. She says she does and then, like an idiot, I remind her that she will have a baby then. Her quick retort assures me she is aware she is pregnant and reminds me that I have bought her a jogging stroller that will make her the envy of all the smart set in Arlington. On Monday I was able to walk again, not far and not fast, but the next day it got easier, and the next, and the next. This afternoon I ran three miles of a five mile course, alternating with walking. As the sun warmed me I suddenly realized that I missed the cheering crowds and the children holding out cups of power ade and water. I come into the front hall breathless but in high spirits. The black box sat on the table looking very much like a bear that might be chasing me. I got out my credit card, pulled up the web site, and signed up for next year's marathon.

and I alone escaped to tell the tale...

I saw the stooped balding man slip into the elevator as I went around the corner to the stairs. I raced up the steps to the court room hoping I would make it before him, but no such luck. I came out of the stairwell just in time to stand in line at the metal detector right behind him, my brother. He was wearing jeans and a UK tee shirt and tossing the contents of his pockets out into the basket. I was glad I choose the conservative classy outfit, black skirt, royal blue blouse, and black sweater, finished off with high heel black boots with silver buckles on the side. I might have know they would set off the metal detector. I do have to give small town police credit for common sense however, because they took one look at me, handed me my pocket book and waved me on. I'm glad the boys from my hood recognized that I had not gone away to the big city to become a terrorist.

My brother and I maintained our long established silence as he sat on one of the benches lining the hall and I walked to the other end, exuding what I hoped was the confidence I did not feel. My sister arrived with her son and an enormous folder of papers. For the past four years she had watched it grow and had become increasing lost counting the trees and pointing out their bark and leaf patterns while I have exasperated her by seeing only the forest. We each seek control in our own way, both of them equally fruitless. Those who had the last measure of command over this situation set this ship sailing directly and unalterably into the wind and then laid them down to sleep. None the less, their ghosts lean over my shoulder, jot things in invisible ink on the lawyers notes, and whisper words in my ear I try to ignore.

I focus on the task at hand. My brother is called to the stand and the first of 23 exhibits is admitted into evidence, my email correspondence with my father's lawyer, now years old and almost forgotten. I find a word that spell check did not correct as I watch the faces of the assembled crowd read the letters from yester-me. Everyone has their moment to speak. I watch as my brother turns red and shakes with rage, caught in lies and schemes that are irrefutable. Through it all I can see that he believes in his entitlement and can no longer sort truth from fiction. As the hours drone on the courtroom becomes more informal. The lawyer asks for a toilet break and no one even mentions rising as the judge comes back into the room. I quickly sit down as I am the only one standing, but no one seems to notice.

We start back on the subject of the difficulty of moving the houseboat. The judge looks puzzled and says, "I don't understand why the boat was so hard to move. How did it get there in the first place?" My brother gesticulates wildly and tells of my father driving the expensive boat full throttle over the Rodchester Dam in high water. "No one else would be fool enough to do that again," says my brother. "No one would even want to ride in it with him much less drive it." I raise my hand like a child in school.

"I would." Immediately I realize where I am and say, "Sorry for speaking out."

"It's okay," says the judge, "We have moved past formal at this point."

I watch the clock on the wall move around the hours. We started at 1:00 and it is now 4:30. The lawyers rest. The judge rises and announces, "I need a Tylenol." He leaves the bench. We sit around looking at each other for a bit until the opposing lawyer comes over, tears streaming down her face, and says,

"There is so little left. Can we just come to an agreement before he returns." She knew my father well and she has a brother much like my own. She is tormented like the rest of us by too much knowledge and too few solutions. Ignoring her tears and sucking my own down I speak up,

"I will not pay my brother for his incompetence in the handling of this estate." The dam breaks and everyone expresses their feelings about the matter, me mostly. I turn to my lawyer and sister. "Mr. Ford, I trust your judgement. You have been fair and complete in everything you have done. Give us your opinion on how to proceed and we will go with your judgment." I do not know if my sister will agree but Mr. Ford writes numbers on paper. We come up with something we can all accept that gives my brother a few thousand dollars, pays half of the lawyer's fees and gives my sister and I the balance of the remainder. We agree to each pay a quarter of Mr. Ford's fee out of our part. My brother's lawyer walks back over to him and in a few minutes we have a deal. The judge comes back into the room looking the most pleased with himself.

About half five the checks are written, the papers signed. Everyone is gone from the courtroom except the bailiff, my brother, his lawyer, and myself. I have been standing with my the ghost of my mother's hand on my shoulder. I look again at the flawed and miserable excuse of a brother sitting so frail and sick across the room. It was not my parent's hand that pushed me, but my own feet that took me over to his table. He was turned away as I bent down and put my arms around him. I find the words to say. "You're my brother and I love you. So sorry it came to this." He is flabbergasted. We chat for a minute. I tell him about my children and grandchildren although he does not ask, has never asked. He recovers and starts to brag about the only thing he has left, his son. He calls him my brother and I gently correct him and agree that Jeff is an exceptional man. After a few minutes of small talk the bailiff says he needs to lock up and go home. I walk out knowing that this is probably the last time I will ever see my brother alive.

In an hour I am back in the car on my way home. My husband had slept the afternoon away so he could drive through the night and get us back safely. Now he wants details but I find I have little to say. The hard knot that had sat in my chest all during the trial is mostly gone, taking with it the tedium, frustration, and anger of the past four years. The further I get from my hometown the better I feel. I will always try to hold tight to the good things my parents gave me, and try to find the grace to forgive the rest. I thank what ever wind, no matter how ill, that blew me from that place and landed me here in Virginia. It is done and I have won after all. I have a life rich and full of love. What more could I ever ask?

I can see clearly now...

The long awaited windows have been installed and we are now officially energy efficient. The only problem I can foresee is that I now have absolutely no excuse if they are not immaculate. Drat, I think I have painted myself into a corner again.

I was awakened first by the music in my head, a dance song, and there across the floor a man with his hand reaching out to me, his body already swaying to the beat. In my dream I rise from my chair like a angel, and matching his rhythm, I glide across the floor into his open arms.

In reality my feet hit the carpet by the side of my bed, my head full of cobwebs, my eyes fighting against the faint light of dawn. The smoky beat and the man are both gone. Morpheus too has deserted me for the moment as I stumble around the bed and find my robe. The black silk is comforting lying against my skin for only a second before my hand goes automatically to scratch the itchy plague on my ass, the one with a name that sounds like a biology project gone awry, lichen planus..

The condition is illusive, more like a punishment from God than the auto immune disease it is purported to be. No one can tell me how I got it, what will cure it, how long it will last, or even how to relieve the symptoms. The do reassure me that it is not contagious, a small comfort.

My little Chinese doctor (who does not have the disease) shows me a spot on her stomach where she had itching. “See, all gone.” I smile and agree, but her methods are doing nothing to relieve me. I let her put the needles into my flesh, I use the herbal wash she provided, and I faithfully drank the tea that looks like something cleaned out of an aquarium. None the less, I am worse. The only thing that has relieved the symptoms for even a little while are the steroids my western doctor gave me. Of course they also caused me to gain 20 pounds even though I was racing through my life like a hamster on a wheel.

I cannot separate the frustration with this condition from the tension of my life Indeed I am told I should not because the two go hand in hand. Work has been unbelievably frustrating for the last few months. Friends that I loved and worked happily with have been let go suddenly with the most flimsy of reasons. It is all about money and power and politics, subjects that I do not consider significant enough to warrant my time. That is why I suppose I will remain in middle management rather than rise to the top with the big ones. What I care about does not matter in the business world but I am suffered because of my talent. I am naïve enough to think that I have no enemies, that if I continue to produce no one will stab me in the back. I know it's a lie of course as I watch the firestorm pass over the cubes consuming good and bad alike.

My laptop says Fri. 6:06 AM, my one day off in two weeks. Still groggy from only 4 hours sleep I heat up some more of the wicked Chinese brew and take my cup to the sofa. The words on the screen soon blur. The cat comes and nestles in the crook of my arm as I stretch out on the sofa. I do not remember falling asleep...

My husband stands in front of the auditorium using sign language. He seems to be quite good at it because everyone is attentive to him. I sit in the silent audience without a clue as to what he is saying. A mumbled voice catches my attention and then a ringing phone.

I am awake and upright again trying to decide if it is the house line or one of the cells. By the time I get to the phone there is no one there. I check the ID and see that the window man has called and most likely my husband has talked to him in his sleep. I realize he may know nothing about it when he wakes but most likely it means our windows have arrived and will be replaced this weekend. I go back to my laptop. The time reads Fri. 8:31 AM, still my day off, but only from the office. I want to write. I always want to write. Sometimes I deny myself even this pleasure, this release. I keep the words and the anger all bottled up inside of me. If I have enemies they are surely kinder to me than I am to myself.

It is now Fri. 12:08, still my day off, but I have curtains to remove along with furniture that sits in front of windows. It means dust and laundry that must be done too. It is the last thing I want to do today, but do it I will. Although they do not know the exact cause of my condition the doctors all agree that it is stress related. I know that if I wanted to be better I would just get into my car today and drive somewhere warm with sand and salt water and the freedom of seabirds flying over my head.

Perhaps tonight I will dream of seagulls...

Wasn't that a Mighty Storm

i lay there listening to the howl of wind and rumble of thunder while the needles imbedded deeply in my flesh did their work. An artificial sensation of heaviness held me fast to the table and any tiny movement sent a shock of electricity outward from the point of the needle like ripples in jello. I stared at my surroundings, a hastily painted room needing an additional coat of chalky white, the Venetian blinds held over from the 50's, clean and sterile. There are no familiar instruments or high tech gadgets, only a tray of glass domes and one closed cabinet, one table. My eyes keep going back to the three piece chart on the wall, a naked Chinese woman quite cheerful about her role as a porcupine for science.. My doctor enters the room in her white coat to check the progress of her handiwork.

"Stick out your tongue," she commands, illustrating with her own. "No, no, too much, like this," I look at her mouth, curious, not ever having thought about a wrong and right way to show a doctor my tongue. I mimic her, closing my wide open mouth and exposing only an inch of my what I hope is an acceptably healthy tongue. She stares for a long time, making no comment. Finally she turns away, talking mostly to herself, "I expect it pinker." I have no idea what this means, but she quickly distracts me by adjusting my metal spikes. "Hurt?" she asks solicitously.

"No, not really. It's just odd," I reply, truthful but hesitant. I need words to describe the feeling, words I don't have. Perhaps they are Chinese words, but having lived my life in ignorance of the language they would provide no more information to me than whales singing. She is busy beside me and I brace for more needles. I have three in each arm, four in each leg, and some around a marvel of Western medicine, my navel. The doctor could not keep the look of shock off her face when I showed her my stomach. "This your bellybutton?" she asks, astutely looking at the perfect contrived navel my plastic surgeon created for me. The scar below and above it have faded from an angry red to a thin white line, but the navel is still alien, totally unlike my original. I laugh with her and explain about the surgery again. She searches for the correct pressure points using my hipbones as landmarks. I feel only the tap but not the sting when these are inserted. I am grateful for once that I hate the crunches that build those muscles into a six pack.

The doctor notes the blisters along my side and hips, the reason for my visit. All that Western medicine has to offer has been exhausted in a search for relief from the itchy rash that has plagued me since the new year rolled over. She is not offended that i come here as a last resort. She works philosophically from this moment forward. As she prepares me for the remainder of the treatment we chat about her life, my life, children, husbands, mothers. We laugh often, finding that we have much in common. All the while she looks for the correct spots, punctures my skin in four places with a needle she complains is too small, and then places one of the glass domes on the spots one by one, When the flame shoots up to heat the cups I must admit I felt like I was visiting the witch doctor, despite every effort to keep my mind open. After the first one I relax and put all my effort into believing.

The wind outside has stopped it's rampage by the time we are done. I am grateful we did not have a direct lightning strike while i am playing pincushion. I put on my clothes and meet the doctor in the front room. We sat and chat barefoot, both pairs of shoes a short space away on the front door mat along with 4 other pair. There is no concept of a receptionist in Eastern medicine, nothing to insulate or separate the patient or the doctor from each other. She writes notes on the form she handed me to fill out when I came in. She gives me a bottle of pills, herbs I am told. I am to take 24 per day and come back next week for a second session. I probe to find out how long to wait for the cure I have been promised. She finds a non offensive way of telling me that I am predictably impatient. I ask how much I owe her for the pills and almost two hours of her time. She details it but the total is $81.00, no debit or credit please, cash or check. I thank her and slip on my shoes, heading out into a world washed clean. There is a rainbow in the sky over the freeway and at least a dozen accidents being scraped up by wreckers and police cars along the way. I steer carefully around the debris and deep puddles, thankful that I was well out of it, and that for now I choose to trust the promise in the sky.

Snitched melon is always best

Summer has always been my fourth favorite season but somehow this particular August has caught me in it's languid little trap. I realized it finally when I touched the watermelon on my kitchen island with the blade of my sharpest knife. The cracking sound of a ripe and ready to burst melon echoed through the empty room and the smell of it told me everything I needed to know about the taste. The only thing that kept me from cutting off an enormous chunk and heading out to the deck to eat it, juice washing down my face and hands, was the little black dress and high heels I had put on to go shopping later. Perhaps that's what has got me about summer this year. I suddenly notice that I have had no time to lie back in it's embrace and enjoy.

In my mind's eye I see my father in his work overalls and teeshirt cutting into a melon out on the side porch. It is one of the big oval stripy ones with seeds. He cuts off a thick slice and bites into the sweetness. Then turning toward me, mouth too stuffed to speak, he shakes his head back and forth in affirmation of delight. Soon he spits the seeds rapid fire into the green grass and bites again. Like a movie picture going to dissolve, the light slowly fades on the scene and he is gone again, a figment of my imagination, long dust. Then this story comes to mind...

My Dad, age 15, a tall gangly lad, slipped quietly into Mr Johnson's watermelon patch under the cover of darkness. He moved quickly to pick three of the best melons, one under each arm and one in the front of his bid overhauls...

He stretches out the words and illustrates with a tug at the front of the freshly ironed dark blue ones he is wearing now. In his poverty ridden childhood they were threadbare hand-me-downs, soft with age...

The melon fit snugly against his chest as he plotted his escape path. Suddenly a noise of cracking branches echoed in the still night air. Knowing Mr. Johnson had a shotgun and might be on patrol, Dad "took off running" toward the dirt road that led home. As he skimmed across the ditch his foot rammed into something big and he fell flat on the muddy bank. The melon secreted against his body smashed, pouring sticky sweetness down his chest. Such was the quickness of the fall he never let go of the other two. Ignoring a muffled grunt from the ground he was on his feet again in seconds making his escape. The next morning, bathed and in fresh clothing, he ventured into the general store bold as brass, despite the fact that Mr. Johnson's team and horses sat outside. He heard the farmer's voice raised in anger before he was fully in the door. "Nearly killed me he did, broke a rib I think! Those good for nothing hooligans! If I ever get my hands on that one..."

Dad listened to the back and forth typical of the close rural community, trying to look nonchalant. The truth of what he had tripped over began to dawn on him. It was Mr. Johnson himself hunkered in the ditch watching over his precious crop, shotgun loaded with birdshot. He never got off a single round in the darkness such was the speed and stealth of the accomplished young melon rustler.

The mischief in my dad's blue eyes had not diminished in the 30 intervening years. The story he told was as fresh as white sheet flapping on an old fashion clothesline on a hot August day. I remember how hard he worked, more than any man I ever knew, but he knew how to sit it down when work was done. Today he would be pleased with me. I'm going to take a lesson from him and sit for a hour in the cool shade, while the watermelon days last.

Bird on a Wire

One foot out the door, the smell of summer pleaded with me to linger. Seductive and enticing, it pulled at the high heel of my summer sandals, imploring me to abandon the trappings of adult responsibilities and step barefoot into the damp grass. I pushed myself onward against the invisible force of early morning mist, remembering when time held it’s breath for me. I think of long sticky August days spent watching ants, exploring the fields and forest of Kentucky with no clock but the sun, running free with my father’s hounds. Time was a boundless fortune I could not dream of exhausting.

My hands are full with gym bag, lunch, and responsibilities. I must deny myself even a minute to stop and examine a single leaf. My manicured finger touches the door handle of my car and the magic of technology takes me off on its pricy magic carpet. The news of the day comes from the radio and the sweet earthy fragrance of summer is washed away by my own soap and vanilla scent. Outside my office the warm aroma of high summer seems distant and diluted. Once inside the door it is altogether gone, replaced by the anonymous sterile odor of papers and keyboards. As I open my computer, the day’s chores nibble tiny bites from my soul. For one more day I will be faithful, loyal, and responsible, even knowing that nothing I can purchase with the gold I earn can buy me a minute of the freedom I yearn for this morning.

Dressing in the Dark

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Now I'm not saying you've gone out of the house this way, but ladies, you know you can relate to this. For my part I'm really glad panties became more sexy since I was sent off to Girl Scout camp at age 11 with my days of the week 7 pack. I mention Girl Scouts especially because that's what my husband used to call the undies I wore when I was pregnant. My mother sent them to me in a big box tucked among slacks with elastic inserts, mu-mu style shirts, and industrial grade bras that were as much a marvel of engineering as a suspension bridge, and just as big a turn on. I'm thinking of this because my daughter and I recently went on a shopping trip for the quintessential 21st century woman's maternity trousseau. Before you scoff at my use of the word trousseau let me tell you that it is from the French "trousse" meaning bundle. Perfect, right?

Maternity garments have evolved in the last 30 odd years, a not unexpected consequence of the sexual revolution. Women, like men, are out there climbing that corporate ladder, and they expect to be able to go out the door looking stylish and feeling comfortable even when they have a "bun in the oven". Still, feeling sexy while pregnant is a bit of a struggle for most women. For those who work hard for their bodies the bulge of baby fat comes as a shock every time they look in the mirror. My girl discarded item after item that "made her look fat". I puzzle over her criteria for eliminating garments and finally catch her drift. We go home with dozens of things that are not going to make it past her sixth month, but I congratulate her on her wise choices. There will be time for discovery when she is more comfortable with the idea of motherhood.

This weekend we shopped for racks and shelves to organize her purchases. The former housemate has moved out of the Arlington home and she has a room to convert into a closet. While we are in Target we pass the lingerie and she stops to pick out some panties in a larger size than she has ever worn before. They are still adorable little sheer things, but she seems to anticipate the near future when she tell me about a comment from her friend who is further along the pregnancy path. Quote she, "I never thought I'd have panties I would have to fold." Sigh. Reality comes to us all my dear, but I promise on my Girl Scout honor I'll never buy them for you unsolicited and my care packages will never be depressing. Now, if you have a trick for putting those thongs on correctly the first time every time, I would certainly listen to your superior wisdom.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear...

Years ago a child the age of my son was found dead in our area under the most horrible of circumstance. I called my sister crying about this precious 6 year old boy whose last hours on earth were unspeakably horrible. She said to me, "Well, you watch your son more carefully. Nothing like that could happen to yours." I was dumbfounded. I replied, "but it happened to this child." I tried to explain my feelings, and as loving and caring a person as she is, she just never got it. My dear friend "Wings" wrote a post about wanting everyone in the world to care as much as she did. I do not wish to sound self-serving or self-righteous, or any of those self things I hate, but she and I are kindred spirits. I explain myself today for her, so she will know she is not alone in her feelings. I also know her life has been much more difficult than mine and her expression of her sentiment is therefore different.

Still, those that are put in our path needing love, we love. Over the years I have "adopted" a dozen or more friends of my children, let them move into my home, listened to their stories, and made sure they had what they needed to finish school and stand strong on their own. A few disappointed me, but most found their feet and moved on to be wonderful, even amazing humans. Long before I met my ever so indulgent husband I was doing the same for every waif I found on the street. I never questioned why or hesitated to reach out my hand. Often I had nothing to give but love, but love alone is usually sufficient. I feel blessed that I have been given the gift of being able to nurture the ones who have been sent to my door. Like Wings, I will never understand why everyone does not feel this way, but unlike her, I have come to accept it.

I think you all know that I am not religious. The terrible hypocrisy of Christians just rung me out and left me high and dry, but to be other than who I am would be a blot on my soul. I hate to quote the book, fearing lightning will strike me, but I suppose I took it to heart when I read, "Love one another as I have loved you." Jesus is reported to have said it over dinner, which they call supper where I was reared. He looked around the table at his closest friends and told them how to live their lives when he was gone, but purportedly he was also anticipating my birth and yours and, therefore was speaking to us all.

Thanks God, I heard you. If I'm wrong about this whole spirit in the sky thing, and you're listening, I just want you to know, I am not asking for anything more than what I have. To be completely honest I find the love thing totally magical, perhaps the only magic left on earth. The more I give, the more I get. I don't want to deceive you, sometimes it hurts, but it also makes my life rich beyond measure. I wouldn't change a thing.

HAPPY HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABY

You didn't want to dance

But you smiled and stood up and took my hand.

Away we went.

You said, "Only the slow ones,"

But when the next set had a drum solo,

You were still on your feet.

You said, "A few drinks first,"

But they played "Rock this Town Tonight"

and sober, you spun me, whirled me, caught me.

But that night when you told me,

"I love it when you pretend to let me lead."

You had me in the palm of your hand, forever.

The boy I met when I was a child, trying to raise a child on my own, is celebrating a milestone birthday today. He's still my best friend, the one I save the last dance for, and the man I'm going home with at the end of the night. He is patient, tender, loving, and he is always there for me when I need him, and he knows I need him before I do. Thanks for the dance darlin'.

Lamentation

She was the perfect picture of rustic misery, standing by the roadside in a pouring rain, bleached blond hair tied in two hurried and unruly frizzles behind her ears. Her smoldering cigarette was cupped by her thigh, sheltered only slightly from the downpour, her other hand lay across her torso about waist high, fist clutched in a knot, as if she just swallowed something noxious. Glancing at her tight jeans and the black leather jacket that almost covered her exposed midriff, I looked about for her motorcycle. There was only a pickup truck with the driver door open parked all alone near the front entrance of the boarded up corner store. Last I remember the store had been a mom and pop grocery, but before that an ice cream shop, prior to being a feed store, and a at some point, an equestrian supply shop. Although it is only 3 miles from the house I have lived in for over 2o years, I have never been inside it during any reincarnation.

The lot sits in what appears to be the path of progress, but for some reason, likely zoning laws, progress has skipped and hopped over it all these years. Farms blanket the road on both sides, green and seemingly prosperous. I follow the woman's stony gaze down to the black gash that stretches across a section of the corner near the road, a burned circle about 40 feet across. The headlines from last week suddenly become real, "Two die in fiery crash in Hanover County". Like always, I start making up story lines to explain her stance, her facial expression, her clothing. It has no basis in fact. It is sheer intuition, an educated guess from years of careful observation and my propensity for chatting up everyone from an Amish housewife in Pennsylvania to the Turkish janitor in my long ago apartment in NYC. My children consider this an affliction, like some sort of tourettes that grips me, and I suppose they are not entirely wrong although I like to think of it as a writers disease.

I look both ways for traffic, pausing longer than necessary in order to hold a picture of her in my mind. She is a cardboard cutout I can cover with flesh as I drive down the back roads on the first leg of my Sunday morning trip to Arlington. She knew the people that died, not as well as she would have liked, but they were kind to her. Perhaps she met them at the WalMart store where the man worked after his retirement. She recalls a last casual conversation, a smile, a laugh, but overriding it all all she imagines the horror of their last minutes on earth, trapped inside the burning van. She searches for some reason, some divine plan, but soon gives it up as past her understanding. There is no balm in Gilead for her this Sunday morning. She stands for long minutes crying tears for them and for herself and for life's irony. She does not use words like irony, but nonetheless it's part of the uncomfortable and all too familiar ache that twists inside of her.

Soon she will go back to her truck, vowing to be a better person from now on, but when she gets home the chaos of her life will intrude, and like all of us, she will soon forget. Her husband will ask her where she went and why she left him at home with the kids. Her best option is to shrug and tell him quickly and honestly, but she will be filled with emotions she has no words to express. Likely the conversation between them will be unsettling, perhaps argumentative. The angry words will come as a surprise to them both.

I gathered the newspaper out of the recycle bin when I got home Sunday night. The man was 76 a veteran of Korea and VietNam, a retired police officer, a life spent in harm's way. His wife is remember as a loving mother, devoted to her children and grandchildren. They say his van veered into the path of an oncoming truck, ran off the road, and burst into flames immediately. There is no picture of them in the paper. My only remembrance of them will be this sad woman, standing like the scarecrow of death by the side of the road, her station in life written as clearly as her private pain across her face. She does not hang her head or sigh. She stares directly into the face of the familiar enemy. She does not go home and write a poem or paint a picture of it, she simply wears it into the weeks and years to come, like gypsy gold.

If these are cookies where are the chocolate chips?

I have advice for my daughter as she joins the largest and least exclusive club in the world, Mothers (Very Loosely) Incorporated. I also have the good sense to keep my mouth shut about advice until she asks. She has no theories about motherhood because even though she speculated, "Well, someday, sure," someday kept slipping elusively into the future. Like most women she has had some disappointments with her reproductive system and while they have been sad for her, she was always able to believe that things worked out as they were supposed to. Now that she is coming to the end of her first trimester and feeling that the babe is settled in for keeps, I detect the happy look on her face that says again, "Things worked out the way they were suppose to." 

This morning I woke up very early from another night of sleep made restless and short lived by the steroids I am taking this month. In the past week I have altogether forgotten what it feels like to relax, not that I was ever especially good at that undertaking. I went straight to the kitchen and started making blueberry muffins. I knew Marc and Eva would be upstairs for breakfast later to help with eating them and I was also trying to delay having breakfast until at least 6 AM. While they baked I made a pot of coffee, checked emails, and then, glancing at the kitchen counter, I noticing an excess of bananas. I started again, grating fresh nutmeg into the banana bread batter, adding pecans and a bit of the Bacardi rum I found on the shelf.  Just as I popped the muffins out of the oven the two loves of banana bread were ready to bake. 

I heard her footsteps on the stairs 45 minutes, three cups of coffee and two blueberry muffins later. She leads with her nose, waking hungry these days, the baby driving her appetite in odd directions. She is sick so frequently it requires extra food to keep her going. Her body rejects her mainstays of soy, leafy green salads, and seafood. In their place she craves carbs, cooked vegetables, milk, and ice cream. She worries she is gaining weight and I lie to her about the little bulge below her navel. She knows I lie, but we maintain the subterfuge for her peace of mind. 

"Oh, What's this?" she asks, ready to be delighted. 

"Blueberry muffins, whole wheat, with pecans," I reply. "The banana bread should be done too. Let me check." I pull the hot loaves out of the oven as Marc comes up the stairs muttering about orange juice. He has coffee, juice, bread and muffins. We look at pictures of Sagan, my grandson, her nephew, waving his tiny hand in utero when he was two weeks older than her little belly bump.  Juice, food, happy chatter and a bit of spilt coffee makes for a happy family morning. Before I am ready to let go they are off, she to work and he to Arlington to paint their bedroom and take delivery of the new king size bed they have purchased for her move in a few days. After they are gone I start one of my periodic life reviews, back to their childhood, back to the young mother that I once was and trying to imagine how different her life will be. 

Even though she has no idea how she will deal with a baby I know she has opinions on what her child will be like when it is older. We all do until we actually have one of our own. I always loved the comment a friend of mine made when her child expressed his deep aesthetic admiration of the portrait of Elvis on black velvet at the state fair. "You would think," she sighed deeply, "that the child of two university professors would just naturally have good taste." I thought of her home, a monument to minimalism and refined elegance, beautiful oil paintings on the walls, rich oriental rugs on the wood floors. Her tow headed little boy, all grins and mischief, ran his red fire truck over the ultra modern sofa and left jelly finger prints on the glass and chrome dining room table. I didn't answer, just smiled and shook my head with understanding. 

     Thinking back I remember the Saturday long ago when I woke before the children, no easy feat in their pre teen days. It was too cold and blustery for them to play outside, so I did my Mom thing, cookies. I searched in the cabinet for chocolate chips, but finding none and still determined, I got out the oatmeal and raisins. The kitchen was warm and spicy smelling when they came in, sleepy eyed and curious about the smell of cooking. I never quibbled over what constituted proper breakfast food because I cook with whole grains, honey and small amounts of good for you vegetable oils. The finished product had less sugar and additives and certainly more nutrition than Captain Crunch or Cocoa Puffs. Ben picked one of the hot cookies off the counter and took a big bite. His face took on a look of dismay. 

"Raisins!" his voice was the definition of disappointment. "You put raisins in the chocolate chip cookies mom." I had to admit he was correct. I apologized. He tried to pick the brown dots out to no avail. From that day on he became a suspicious eater, always asking what the brown bits were before tasting. I did not try to sway him from his opinion like my parents attempted to do with me. I find that although children seem to be able to thrive on oddly constituted diets for long periods of time they mostly grow up to be adults that enjoy things beyond yellow cheese and green grapes three meals a day. Some of them never learn to love raisins but most, given the option, eventually see the virtue of Picasso over paint by numbers. More importantly, if they are given love, all of them grow up able to give it back and pass it along to another generation. 

I always tell my daughter that she had a better mother than I had and that I had a better one than my mother did. It's time to add a new line to that story. My daughter's child will have a better mother than she did, although she cannot imagine it at the moment. Eva will be more diplomatic, more confident, more playful than I was. She will be a career minded mother and may not have the time to be scout leader or make cookies from scratch that often, but she is strong and fierce and funny and very loving. Moreover, as she moves into her new role, I take delight moving into mine. Welcome to the club my dear.  I am so looking forward to  you joining me for the meetings. 

The Arrogant Persistence of Life

This is one of the windows at the front of my office. I had to stop and laugh at this bit of green optimism looking for new worlds to conquer.  We know this adventure is doomed to failure but for the moment he is sending back messages of cool air conditioned comfort to the rest of the vine languishing in the heat. I can't help but think that someone on the cleaning crew has seen it but, amused as myself, cannot bear to destroy it. Personally, I'm "rooting" for the underdog. I'll keep you posted.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY DADS!

That would be Wrenn's dad holding him on the way to church to be christened.  Beside it is Dad with all the family (Eva, Carl, Cindy in arms, Russ on the left and Wrenn on the right) at Camp Haley a few years further along. Next is my Dad,about to give me away.  To the right is the 5 year old me, Daddy, and my sister, fishing in Florida. Yes, it was hot and pants only pants were not optional. I remember that trip vividly. We camped in a pop up tent that dad pulled behind the car, sleeping on little shelves they called beds over my parent's heads. All night long I fell off my shelf and landed on my sleeping parents. Oh, and my sister got chased out of the Gulf of Mexico by a crab that was almost as big as the mosquitos. I think we had way more fun than my parents.

Next row, Wrenn holding Jason in the hospital with a proud papa beam on his face. Almost as excited is the picture of Ben with the fish his Dad had caught earlier. I love the next one of a sleepy group, Eva, Dad, and Jason, all in their undies on the floor in front of the TV. Moving ahead a few years our trip to Disneyworld for the 15 year anniversary of the park. Then there is Dad in costume picked by his daughter, "giving" her away at the occasion that was forever to be known as "Wedstock" because of the two hurricanes. God spoke but we did not listen.

In the middle of the last row is a typical activity at our house almost 30 years ago, "horsie, daddy, horsie", and Dad was never too tired to play. To the left is our son with his firstborn and the proud papa beam.  On the right, with an older and wiser version of the same look sits the proud Granddad...and the beat goes on...

OMG I found a picture of the sport coat!

  That would be me in the middle between my wonderful first college roommate and "the asshole".  He is wearing the coat I bought him with my mother's money, the one that caused the blowup and engendered  the amusing letter from my post last week.  Gloria Inch, my roommate, was a five foot nothing blue eyed blond. She had a irresistible bubbly laugh and incredible karma. She once sat next to Martin Luther King Jr. on an airplane from Atlanta to Florida. Her parents were elderly retired snowbirds, Canada in the summer and Lakeland FL when it grew cold up there. Everyone who met her fell instantly in love except my parents. They disliked her from the minute they met her for reasons I never understood. I wish I could see her now, but we managed to lose touch somewhere along the way in those pre cellphone, twitter, and facebook times. I know she lived in Hawaii for a while after she married, and then went back to Lakeland where she and her husband ran a marina. If she looks like someone you know, please drop me a line.

My hair was very short because I wanted to get the blond off the ends. It was blond because of my high school boy friend who cheated on me with one of my best friends, and then joined the army to get away from both of us. The week after, while I was sitting around the house in my pajamas, eyes red from listening to "our song" and crying, my mother gave me 20 bucks and instructions to go "get that stringy hair cut and get a permanent".  I can't seem to remember what "our song" was now but I do remember the look on my mother's face when she picked me up from the hairdresser. The stylist used a lot of bleach to get all the auburn out of my almost waist length hair. Mom went and had a few words with her, but sent me to the car first. I can only imagine how that went down. Her eyes were still wide as saucers and capable of bringing down small aircraft when she slid into the station wagon. Fun memories.

John, my first husband, is somewhere in El Paso, TX last I heard. At least that's where he was when he called me about 10 years ago, some months after his father died. Of course, it would have been thoughtful to have let our child know that his grandfather was dead when it happened,  but well, leopards don't change their spots, now do they? I imagine he still complains to his third (or maybe fourth by now) wife about me. If you know someone who looks like him, run as fast as you can. 

LETTERS FROM YESTERDAY

The black bag my sister hands me is embossed with an “e”, our mutual first initial. Inside are newspapers, clippings, and letters I wrote; mingled stories of death and of a life that happened to a person I once was long ago. The letters come from a time in my existence when I believed I could just turn my face away, and walk in the direction I was pointed without consequences.  I page through them, one-sided conversations from the past, a time capsule of people and things forgotten. I am soon overwhelmed, so I push them aside and pick up the plastic bag that is stuffed with newspaper.

 Some of the obituaries are cut out neatly along the columns, but others are entire pages where I struggle to find the one she intended me to read. None of the names seem familiar and yet they have a commonality, like characters in a book by a favorite author. They are solid mid-western names mostly Scottish, Irish, English, and German, the sons and daughters of pioneers. Interspersed between the deaths are bits of life, fifty-year wedding anniversaries, new marriages, and a few babies. Confusingly the babies are grandchildren or great grandchildren of the people I once knew, the marriages between strangers whose parents I only vaguely remember. The funerals have all taken place months or years ago, leaving me weighted down with an emotion of untimely remorse, like the white rabbit, running and checking his pocket watch.

I pick up the other envelope again, the one that my mother used to store my letters and mementoes. It is from the Office of Economic Opportunity in Washington. It once contained my application for VISTA, a program similar to the Peace Corp but intended to elevate domestic poverty. Everything from that letter is gone except for a note asking me to explain why I was treated for mental illness. I don’t know if I wrote them back or not. I am still not sure how I could have told them that my parents had insisted on me seeing a psychiatrist when I introduced them to my fiancée. That was only after they found out that you couldn’t actually have a child over 18 committed to a mental institution for wanting to marry someone you don’t like. I wonder if parental insanity could have been used to exclude me from the program?

I open a letter from my erstwhile alma mater and find a picture of myself that I never expected to see again. It is from my tumultuous sophomore year, one punctuated by threats and paranoia, set against a world stage of fear and conspiracy theory. My face is a mask of unruffled serenity, a believable lie. The poor quality photo is from the proof sheet of the school annual. I could not afford to buy my pictures that year. I was cut off from my parent’s financial support due to my stubborn attachment to the boy my father called “the asshole”. The tiny blurred image is made worse by the glue they used to affix it to the letter. The letter was ironically sent to my parents asking them for money.  Even many years later when I was divorced, my parents refused to contribute a penny to the school. They blamed Georgetown for allowing the asshole to graduate with honors plus giving him a scholarship to UVA for graduate school.

I open another envelope and discover a terse note from said fiancée.  I have taken some liberties with the names.

Dear Mrs. Future MIL from Hell,

     Enclosed is $33.00 in payment for the sport coat Elaine bought me. I deducted $3.00 in payment for a collect phone call made by Elaine.

Sincerely,

“The asshole”

I remember the sport coat very well but knew nothing of the repayment. I bought it for him because he had nothing presentable to wear when we went out for dinner. I mentioned it casually to my Mom and she hit the roof. I must have said something to him about her reaction, and that no doubt engendered the letter. Let’s just say they didn’t have a warm friendly relationship and leave it at that.

I finally finish sorting the letters chronologically in an effort to gain control over the mass of emotions I feel. I read only bits of them, but moving on through time I find my entire courtship, marriage, and subsequent divorce detailed in monologue. Any response to my spin on events during that time is lost because, unlike my sentimental sister, I saved very little. Now I am faced with this embarrassing pile of words, most of which are almost too painful to read. It overwhelms me how much effort I put into trying to gain approval rather than validating myself.

I can bear no more and yet I cannot throw the letters away now like I could have long ago. I tell myself that my mother saved them for a reason, although I know she saved everything from notes to the housekeeper to dead flower arrangements. She had everything neatly organized and placed carefully in labeled boxes, tucked away in the gazillion tons of cubic space she built so she could save it all. My sister has become keeper of the flame of insanity that runs in out family and although I know she is trying to pass this particular torch over to me I have no inclination toward succumbing to the obsession.

I am ready to toss the lot into the recycle bin when one catches my eye.  It is not from me but from my former MIL.  It was written to my mother trying to plead the suit of her only son. I had just visited them so she tells my mother that I am a nice girl and a good cook. She says that until her boy met me he had never “gone steady” with a girl. Then there is this sentence guaranteed to put any parent’s fears to rest. “He bowled and swam with several boys friends and was unconcerned about girls.” I am shaking with laughter as I think of my parent’s probable reaction to this testimony. My MIL goes on to provide references in the form of a Baptist minister, once in DC and now living in Kentucky. My mother has written his address and phone number in her hand on the bottom of the letter. Later in the stack is a letter from the pastor to my mother attesting to the fact that John is a “good boy”. 

I encase the letter with rubber bands and start to put them back in the black bag.

I take one final look at the newspaper clippings before tossing them. “One of only two crocheted Christmas Trees In the World” reads the teaser, and this one about Valentine’s Day at the local nursing home, and another that is simply a picture of a cubby nerd with the title “Fantasy Sports Guru”. I gather the papers and deposit them in the recycle bin, grimacing with the thought that some of those people are my relations.  Like usual I am spinning my wheels, two steps forward, one step back, but I have come far enough to know that I no longer have the temperament to live in that narrow world.

If I could write a letter in warning to that girl from long ago it would make no difference, because she wouldn’t listen. She is insecure and afraid of losing control, although few people ever guess. She longs to be told she is beautiful, but she does not trust or believe the men who find the nerve to tell her so. The rest think she already knows, but when she looks in the mirror she only sees her flaws. Such is her self-doubt that she ignores men who treat her well and marries the asshole, thinking he is what she deserves. Looking back I have to admit I don’t miss her much, just envy her youth and resilience, and wish she had been more like me. I said a word about this to a friend, as we both looked at the picture of my younger self.  Says I, “I had no idea I was beautiful.” Says my dear friend,

“You still are and you still don’t.” I do not blush and stammer. I accept the kindness and feel beautiful for the rest of the day.  I repeat the compliment to my husband and he smiles and says,

“He is a wise man.”

The young girl sits and stares at the mirror, her face a mask, her eyes unseeing.

Look Ma! No Tan Lines!

Good news! I’m going to have an over all body tan this summer! My insurance company, the one I work for, is sort of paying for it. I do cough up the co pay for the NBUV tanning booth at the dermatologist office, but they pick up the bulk of the money. I guess I’m getting ahead of myself here, but you know how I love starting in the middle of the story. Okay, let’s get into the way back machine and scoot on over to January. You may recall I blamed my rash on hedgehogs after online research.  It seemed so obvious but well, I was wrong. The skin eruption so confounded my family doctor that he treated me for three different things, none of which I actually had. Finally, after I insisted, he conceded that I might need to see a specialist.

Chapter two in my saga began when I met my holistic dermatologist early in May. He was very excited that he knew almost immediately what was causing my relatively rare skin disease. Almost too excited actually, almost gleeful. It’s not that I mind when a very attractive young man finds me interesting, but damn, not because of my itchy red blotches. He numbed my wrist and cut a small shallow hole of skin from my arm. Two weeks later one of his minions, an English challenged lady, called me to tell me cheerfully that the doctor was right. I have an auto immune disease most assuredly related to stress. Well now, that’s going to be easy to fix, right?

I told my daughter about the treatment plan, cortisone cream and the ultra violet light treatment. She asked immediately, “Will you get a tan?” I ponder over this and savor the irony of going to my dermatologist to soak up the exact type of rays I have been avoiding for years because of the danger of skin cancer and premature aging. “Yes,” I reply, “I think so.”

After waiting for 45 minutes in the office for my first session a short attractive dark haired woman came into the waiting room asking for “Mrs. Holy”. I’m feeling a bit self-righteous these days so I raised my hand, picked up my bag and followed the minion into a treatment room. She gave me 3 minutes of instruction and a pair of yellow goggles while I peeled off my clothes. After all this big whoop about the miracle of the lights I am dumbfounded to find I only get 33 seconds per side on my first visit.  “Ya vil git extra 5 seconds every time,” she tells me by way of explanation. Hum, this tan may take a while. Back in my clothes I hunt down the minion whose name I still don’t know.

“How long is this going to take,” I ask?

“You ready to go,” she says. It is a statement not a question.

“No,” I mean how many times do I have to do this?

“Oh, two or three month, depends.”

This is not the answer I need to hear. I want a pill for this, a miracle drug. Unfortunately there is very little research being done on annoying skin rashes in middle aged women. I know I should be grateful because I am truly blessed with good health. This is neither life threatening or debilitating. Business goes on as usual. There is no support group to join or special diet to follow.  There is nothing I can do to affect the outcome except learn to relax and accept the things I cannot change. Damn, it’s going to be a long itchy summer but at least I will have my first tan in thirty years. 

Note from the Heartland

I planned on giving up OM after twenty years, but now that world finals are over, I’m not so sure I can. I put my arm around my husband tonight as closing ceremony fireworks lit up the Iowa landscape and thought back over the last three days. Elizabeth, a 12 year old from PA took apart her parent’s dishwasher to make a penguin and took her team to first place. The Canadian group, in total innocence, had a membership sign that featured Beaver flavored gumballs. Aye? Another cute bunch of middle school kids came up with a team name of “The Chubbys”. I watched animated meerkats be taught to serve spaghetti by waiters with fake French accents, sighed quietly through 20 or more fart and poop jokes, and saw at least 10 children from do the impossible because no one ever told them they couldn’t. Now honestly, how can I walk away from this crazy creative worldview?

Fireworks over the University of Iowa
Pretend donuts the size of your head...
An ostrich, stripped of it's feathers to show how it was made to walk using the circuitry from the guitar on the floor. 
Pin trading in from of the Student Union
Chicken, sliced in half to show the delightful electronic contents that make it eat, wink, and talk
Beautiful art work from Singapore
Flamingo, quivering with excitement as the show begins. It danced, bowed, flapped it's wings and blew steam from it's eyeballs.