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.