Hearts of Gold/Feet of Clay

I have great admiration and, dare I say, Gratitude for Brene’ Brown. She took the stage looking like everybody’s Mom at her first TED talk, and wowed us with her homespun brilliance. Brene’ Brown took what we’d always suspected was true and wove it into a beautiful tapestry we all want to be part of. Unless you follow her regularly, you probably don’t know about the current controversy around her podcast. It’s her first controversy of this magnitude and entirely of her own making.

Joe Rogan and Brene’ Brown both joined Spotify in September of 2020. I remember hearing about the deal and being impressed by the company’s obvious aggressive plan to become more than just the cool place to find and play music. It wasn’t lost on me that the two acquisitions represented two completely different audiences. Spotify came to play.

Fast forward. It’s two covid-filled years later. We’re tired. We’re cranky and we’re looking for some place to dump a boatload of angst. Joe Rogan and his contrived…well…everything seemed like a good place to put it. Our angst, though, is over-flowing. I’ll Be Whatever I Need To Be To Cause A Stir Joe, despite his efforts to the contrary, just doesn’t feel big enough, important enough to hold our dissatisfaction. Cue the Gladiator extras! Let’s get Spotify!

Though a wonderful songwriter, Neal Young’s voice rivals nails on chalkboard for chills on my spine. Willies aside, I found it kind of precious when he threatened to pull his music from Spotify in protest of Joe Rogan’s content. The last time I considered Young relevant had nothing to do with music. In 2012, he announced he had stopped smoking weed. He was just too darn old and no longer had the brain cells to burn or something like that. I was quick to bring this to the attention of a couple of aging “heads” in my orbit in hopes that they, too, might decide to preserve whatever bandwidth they had left for their dotage. That had the same effect as Neal Young pulling his catalogue minus Joni Mitchell’s “me too”.

In walks Brene’ Brown wearing a pantsuit fit for parent/teacher conferences, her kitschy earrings, and her “this is the best I could do” hair.

I have that hair. Me, Brene’, and Hillary Clinton. It’s a thing.

Brene’ wrote a clear, insightful piece explaining that she’d paused her podcast to ponder a few things. The piece was everything we’ve come to expect from the grounded theory researcher cum pop sociologist and respected author.

One week later, she posted again. This piece began by reminding the reader of her “multiyear, exclusive contract with Spotify”. She should have stopped there. Instead, the word salad that followed left many of us feeling like she was saying something without really saying it and, that’s a bitter pill coming from the authenticity guru. Not to say the whole thing was without merit. She offered up a metaphor involving a high school cafeteria in which one has no say as to her table mates. Let me stop here to say, I, personally, never found that to be true. In 7th grade, as the new girl whose mother still sewed all her clothes using fabrics that did not necessarily complement my man-style, plastic rimmed eyeglasses, I was very clear as to the tables on which I could place my tray. Later, while laughing with my tribe at our table, I could feel the protective barrier we created with our camaraderie. Joe Rogan would have never dared penetrate that energy field.

Brene’ Brown wrote that Rogan’s content made her “physically sick” and that her contract with the same company sharing that content amounts to an assigned table in the Spotify lunchroom where she sits with all content creators, including Joe Rogan.

Here’s where it gets weird. Brene’ closed the metaphor by saying she isn’t willing to invite us to lunch with Joe, and goes on to describe her podcast content going forward which clearly can only be heard by sitting at that table,

in that lunchroom,

with Joe Rogan,

and his sickening content.

Do you see the problem?

Full disclosure, I’m with Joni. I deleted the Spotify app from my phone as soon as an artist I care about spoke up. It was an empty act, though, since the only reason I had one was because my son wanted to share a song with me and, when I mentioned Apple Music, where all my music lives, he gave me a look akin to a pat on the head, took my phone and downloaded Spotify. I haven’t opened it since and never paid money for it. (Yes, that felt just like it does when I tell people we only use cloth napkins and we grow things whose sole purpose is to feed bees.)

Pre-covid, when I spent several soul-crushing hours a day in what has been described as the worst rush-hour traffic in the world, podcasts were everything. I did what I had to do. Brene’ did too. I get that. I just wish she hadn’t stomped all over her integrity on the way to the cafeteria.

Requiem

This was your place, Dad.

This was the place you took your family every summer.

Where mother turned “brown as a berry” while dripping sandcastles with your daughters

who would only trade their seat in the sand for a ride on a float with you at the helm.

And the waves rocked us and the sun baked us and love filled us.

This is the place I brought my family

and where my family brought their families

because Josh only wants to go to “our beach”.

And we never did what tourists do because we weren’t tourists.

We were home.

This is the place I came when we knew something was wrong,

when you refused to stay in the hospital because you “weren’t sick”.

You’d never been sick.

Not even a headache.

But you were and you went.

The beginning of the end.

This place is still yours.

I feel you everywhere.

In the blue and green of the ocean

and the whitest sand of the “prettiest beaches I’ve ever seen”.

In the wind near the surf and the sidewalks along the beach road where you walked until you couldn’t.

There are some places I can’t go yet,

where walking in the door opens an empty space

where the sound of people calling out your name should be

and there will be empty barstools where we should be sitting

and you would order grits and hug the chef

and squeeze my hand, at least once while we were eating.

Devastating heartbreak comes from love born inside you

that will always be with you

until it isn’t.

What you thought you couldn’t lose walks away.

Time passes and unanswered questions burn a hole in your heart,

and the rain falls, the trees bud, flowers grow and you,

watered by your own tears, do too.

You aren’t what you thought you were,

you’ve been given the space to be more.

Unintended Consequences

I don’t make resolutions. A resolution is a promise in a business suit and, as the saying goes; promises are made to be broken.

For years I met my best friend every Saturday morning for breakfast and, for years, she ‘d ask me to pick up a newspaper on my way. My response was always the same, “I can’t promise.” It drove her crazy. She accused me of being stubborn. I wasn’t stubborn, I was busy. I had three kids, 1 husband, 2 dogs, and a job to tend to. My friend’s newspaper wasn’t likely to make the top of my to-do list. If I make a promise, it’s a sure thing, and there aren’t very many of those.

I do, however, set intentions. It’s not a formal thing. I don’t write anything down, light candles, chant, or tell people. My intentions usually arise from something I feel strongly about, or some kind of character issue I want to change.

2014 was Shane’s last year to play football. With that in mind, I decided to involve myself wholly. I joined committees, went to meetings, and attended every event possible. I stuffed goodie bags, decorated lockers, cooked meals for coaches, and danced while waving pom-poms in front of a bonfire to the tune of “Bang Bang”.

That’s right…”Bang Bang”.

My goal was to prevent regret. I didn’t want to look back a couple of years from now and think, “I wish I’d done that.” I accomplished that goal.

Somewhere along the way though…without my even noticing or giving permission…the goal became secondary. Once it was over, after tears were shed over hugs that said “Thank you for making these memories with me.”, I realized the true gift of my involvement.

I thought I’d done well. People tell me that all the time. They marvel at how well I’m doing “under the circumstances”. They remark on my strength and the way I carry on despite the death of my son. It wasn’t until recently though, after spending lots of time with beautiful, strong, smart women whose sons also play football, that I realized I hadn’t actually been “doing” at all. I was “being”…and there’s a big difference between doing and being.

Starting in August, I spent many hours over several days every week in the company of women who know how to wear a hat, and run a business, in boots up to her knees. Some of them travel to places I’ve only dreamed of, while others join me in a daily commute. They are teachers, and accountants, and “family managers”. They are readers, and tennis players, and dancers. They are mothers, and daughters, and grandmothers, and sisters. And they gave me back a part of myself I didn’t know I’d lost.

It showed in my professionally manicured nails, in my new haircut, and in my face. My step was quicker, full of purpose, and accompanied by an occasional swing of my happily shrinking hips. Meetings and events meant fewer evenings spent in pajamas and more opportunities to change shoes. I had to step up my game! Instead of searching for excuses not to go out, I found myself planning what I’d wear while imagining who I’d see and what we’d do when I got there.

I’ve known some of them longer than others. Many of the boys have played together since they were six, and many of their mothers brought flowers or food along with condolences when my son died. Others in our group have no idea, but it didn’t matter. All of them contributed to my healing and I am filled with gratitude.

Today I’ll set new intentions for the coming year while keeping in mind that the true gift sometimes comes when we aren’t even paying attention, and always after we get out of the way. I’ll also put the first note in my new gratitude jar. It’ll be a long one. I am blessed.

Long Shot

Mr. Lucky died. I found out he died the same way I learned he was alive, in a post on Facebook between a political rant and a photo of last night’s dinner. Just yesterday I saw a photo of him and his adopted brother, Mr. Max. They were sleeping the way small animals and children do, in a mix of limbs forming a pile of sweetness.

From the start, he was a long shot. His adopted Mom found him on a sidewalk and knew, right away, that something was wrong. She loved him anyway…in an irrational way…in a way someone loves a cat she grew up with…or the way someone who knows what it feels like to be kicked to the curb loves a kitten who was.

Daily postings revealed sleepless nights spent wielding an eye-dropper in a manner enticing enough to encourage the kitten to eat. I read her words. I studied her photographs. I imagined what it would be like to be completely responsible for the welfare of something so utterly innocent and gray and furry and sweet. I soon began every morning with a click of the mouse, anxious to know how Mr. Lucky was doing.

I’m not a cat person, but I’ve lived with cats. As a kid, we always had cats. My mother loved cats. Her favorite was named Cleo. She called her Cleo-Meo. She was calico and long-haired and if anyone other than my mother deigned to touch her, she left marks. Her death, at a ripe old age, devastated my mother. She never replaced her.

Many years ago I found a stray kitten in the ivy surrounding our shed or, to be more accurate, he found me. A white and gray ball of fluff, he approached me, mewling. I picked him up, cradling him against my chest. Needle-like claws pierced my shirt as he climbed to curl up in the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, leaving me no choice.

“Look what I found.”, I said to my partner, the cat-lover, whose face softened as he reached out to touch the kitten. “Too bad we can’t keep him.”

“We have to keep him.”, Roger countered. “He can’t live out there!”

Plucking the kitten off my shoulder, he walked away.

“He can stay in the spare room. We’ll keep the dogs away from him.”

The kitten lived in our spare bedroom for nearly a month. Keeping his end of the bargain, Roger cleaned up after him. In exchange, I relented to his suggestion that we allow the kitten to visit our bedroom at night before we went to sleep.

I held my breath every time Roger opened the door separating our dogs from the tiny kitten. They knew he was there. I’d seen them sniffing around the door.

On that night, I listened as I always did. The knob turned, the door creaked, and what happened next can only be described as chaos. I maintained my position against a stack of pillows on my side of the bed, even as I knew the horror taking place down the hall. I steeled myself against the words he’d say, making it true and, when he said them, my grief poured forth in a scream of accusations. There were only two possible explanations for what happened; stupidity and carelessness. To this day I can’t accept one without wondering about the other.

When Lucky’s mother offered her friends an opportunity to participate in his care, I jumped at the chance. Others followed suit. Soon Lucky had a following, and a special kind of formula, and a cozy bed. I clicked the button that would magically send money across the country to a person I’d never met to assist in the care of a cat I only knew from pictures on the internet. Even as I did it, it felt a little crazy. But isn’t life a little crazy? Doesn’t every day present us with risks we wouldn’t take if we thought about them, even a little bit, ahead of time?

The greatest risk of all, of course, is love. There are no guarantees with love. You may not be loved back. You may invest lots of time and effort, and a large amount of your self, in someone who can’t or won’t reciprocate. You may carry a child and raise him into adulthood only to watch, desperately, as he makes choices that end his life and, in many ways, yours as well. Or you may take a chance on a long shot kitten whose death hurts more than you expected. What matters is taking the chance.

Maya’s Mail

My friend’s new husband used to deliver Maya Angelou’s mail. They changed his route last year, so he doesn’t anymore, but he used to. As soon as I heard, I imagined taking a trip. The town they live in couldn’t be more than six or seven hours away. I could be there in the same amount of time it takes me to get to the beach, and I’ve been known to drive to the beach and back over a weekend.

But I didn’t. I didn’t make that trip. Truth be told, the idea never became much more than that…something I thought about now and then…a musing atop a pile of reverie in a corner of my brain that never gets enough light to grow anything.

I hadn’t read her books, either. The first time I heard the title “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” was when a high school English teacher added it to her “suggested” reading list. This was the same teacher that required us to read books like “Great Expectations”, “The Scarlet Letter”, and “1984”. And, I had to read them! No Cliff’s Notes for this girl! My mother’s eyes narrowed when she saw those distinctive yellow and black stripes among my classmates’ books. I worried sometimes she’d stop letting me be friends with those girls, like the time she told me I couldn’t go over to Tina Green’s house anymore, because Tina Green’s house was not a house. It was an apartment and only itinerants lived in apartments.

I don’t know if it’s because of, or in spite of, the fact that I actually had to read those torture devices of semi-modern literature, but I remember quite a lot about all three of those books. If only “I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” had made the required list.
But it was Atlanta. And it was the 70’s. Just a few years before, my mother had fired the last of a succession of large black women who dressed like nurses to do the ironing. Shortly afterwards we moved to north Atlanta only to be bussed back to south Atlanta schools. That’s where I met Kathy whose blackness escaped me until I learned we were moving again. More north this time. So north that there wasn’t any chance of making any black friends. Mother took the scrap of paper with Kathy’s telephone number on it. “You won’t be needing this.”

Oprah Winfrey introduced me to Maya Angelou when I was a new mother and anxious for every kind of reassurance. Her voice, as it slid from her mouth, down the front of her blouse, and into her gorgeously expressive, caramel-colored hands reminded me of Mae, my favorite of my mother’s maids. Like Maya, she was a large woman and handsome, and when she wasn’t using her mouth for soothing, she was smiling. Often she did both at the same time.

It wasn’t until I read “Phenomenal Woman” though, that I began to truly appreciate the gift of Maya Angelou. I saw myself there. I think we all did. Maya had a way of working words like dough until they formed something that fed us all. She was the epitome of civilized in a world that seems to have forgotten the meaning of the word and, as long as she was there…waiting for me to visit, there was hope. There will never be another like her.

Bowling For Easter

Bowling for easter

I almost forgot Easter. It didn’t occur to me until the Monday before. Of course, my second thought was “If you hadn’t stopped going to church you would have known that.” That second thought is always a bitch.

I called my daughter, Jennifer, immediately. Her son, Elijah, is the only member of our family young enough to qualify for a hunt and a basket. I was somewhat relieved to hear he was spending Easter with his Dad. I’d miss spending time with him, but at least he didn’t have to know I’d forgotten Easter. I mean, who does that?

I toyed with the idea of getting the decorations down from the attic. By this time in years past, the branches on the dogwood out front would have begun to droop, ever so slightly, thanks to the pull of dozens of brightly-hued plastic eggs. I especially like to use the mirrored eggs. It pleases me to know that everyone, even drivers circling our cul-de-sac at night, is treated to a flash of springtime color. As I reached for a hand towel in the bathroom, I remembered the Easter towel that should have been there…the one with the puffball sewn on where the bunny’s tail would be. I imagined climbing the attic stairs…over and over again…and then repeating the process in the opposite direction in just a few days. And that settled that.

For the first time in my life, there would be no family get-together at Easter. It would just be me and my youngest son, Shane. I vacillated between guilt at not having arranged a more festive holiday for him, and excitement that we could do whatever we wanted without worrying about anyone’s schedule, or what to cook, or cleaning up or…anything. This Easter was ours to do as we saw fit.

By Thursday, I still hadn’t formulated a plan…and I was okay with that. Spontaneity has always been my friend. After all, hadn’t I been counseled, just the other day, that surrender is the key to happiness? I surrendered Easter, and within minutes Jennifer texted me with the news that Elijah was coming home on Saturday.

Easter was on again.

Having already nixed the decorations, moving dinner to a restaurant in another town was an easy decision. My daughter chose a restaurant my grandson would like. Fortunately, it was one of those places that have something for everyone. Nothing was actually good, but everything was basically edible.

I had placed an assortment of candies and gifts on the table before anyone else arrived. When the waitress reminded us to visit the dessert bar, my oldest son, Josh, produced a Reese’s egg and said, “I’ve got dessert.”

I held up my hand in a bid for attention.

“This is just the first part of our Easter celebration!”, I teased.

Five pairs of eyes stared back at me with expressions of wary incredulity.

“We’re going bowling!”, I announced.

Other than a couple of gasps the group was silent, and at least two pairs of formerly wary eyes now held something resembling fear.

“I don’t know…”, Josh began while retrieving his cell phone from his pants pocket. He pressed a button on the screen. “I’ve got to be somewhere at 3:00.”, he sort of whined. A glance at his phone revealed it was 12:45.

“Okay, then we’ll just bowl one game. We can do that in less than an hour and you’ll still have plenty of time.” I would not be denied.

GPS coordinates were entered while the youngest among us calculated, in short order, how to maximize time in the front seat. Shane slid in beside his older brother while Elijah climbed in next to me. He fastened his seat belt with one hand while reaching for my Ipod with the other.

Thirty minutes later we’d gotten past wondering how many other people had worn our rented shoes before us, and amassed a large collection of ten-pound bowling balls in assorted colors. Elijah would soon bowl three consecutive strikes, providing his contribution to an ever-changing lead. In the end, Josh would out-bowl us despite his earlier complaint, “It’s been years!”

I can’t remember who first suggested we start another game. I do know we all looked to Josh, He of the 3:00 Appointment. Never one to be comfortable with expressions of emotion, he ducked his head to hide a smile that couldn’t be missed.

“It’s alright with me…”, he allowed.

There was some talk of requesting the bumper guards be raised and Elijah, unhappy with his score despite the strikes, launched a search for the perfect ball. Soon, we were heading into the last frame of the second game.

By this time, we’d learned some things. For instance, no one knew until he won the first game that Josh used to own a pair of bowling shoes and a ball. At one time, he’d apparently enjoyed bowling a lot! Elijah taught his mother the “granny roll” even though he was too old to do it himself. And Jennifer’s husband, Chris, paid attention when I shared a tip I picked up in the bowling class I took in high school (Yes! High school! Those were the days…) and used it to win the second game handily. I smiled as I realized I’d been right to trust my instincts. Easter dinner was nice, but it wasn’t enough. We needed time together…fun time…a time to remember.

Two years ago we lost a member of our family. Things have never been the same since, and they never will be. Those precious memories can’t be duplicated but we can make new ones…different ones. We can make the most of what we have left. That’s what he would want us to do. I’ll bet he would have loved bowling for Easter.

Photograph can be found at: http://playandgo.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2013/03/kingpin-easter.jpg

Two

I want a cigarette. Bad. I’m sure I could scrounge up a pack if I looked hard enough.

I can taste it. It wouldn’t be menthol. He doesn’t smoke menthol. And it’d be short…much shorter than the ones I used to smoke. I would breathe deep. I’d fill my lungs and then feel the burn as smoke poured out of my nose.

I want a drink. Make mine a whiskey…cinnamon flavored whiskey and coke, please…on ice, of course. I want whiskey at 9:43 in the morning. I want to scorch the back of my throat as it slides down.

Cake would be good. Bakery cake with sticky white icing. A decorated cake…pink flowers…green leaves…no writing, please. And the inside should be yellow and spongy and leave gooey brown goodness on the bottom of the plate when you slice it.

Yesterday morning I looked at myself in the mirror as I dressed for work. My face, despite the artificial glow of carefully applied foundation, bore no expression. Good Morning America played softly in the background as the words “Happy New Year” came to mind.

Only it’s not happy. It’s not happy at all. Not that it’s not ever happy, there are happy days. But this day is not happy. So it’s a new year but not a particularly happy one… so far.

I hadn’t realized this before…this marking of the year that I do in my head. In a way it’s a relief as it serves to explain why January 1st has little to no meaning for me anymore. My year doesn’t begin and end at the same time as everyone else’s. My year ends on February 25th and begins again on the 27th…if I make it.

I leave the “if” in there because I need permission not to. On this day, more than any other, I grant myself permission to consider what would happen if I didn’t. Because, I don’t have to. No one does. Life is a choice we make every day. Someone else said that first, I know. Maybe that person, like me, experienced the capriciousness of life. Maybe they lost someone.

I don’t like to use the word “lost”. I didn’t lose Trey. He died. Actually, if anyone is lost, it’s me. I’m lost. More lost on some days than I am on others, but I’m always lost. I’m navigating a path I never thought to take. And yet, now that I am on it, I often try to imagine what would happen if I had to start all over again. What if I became even more lost? What if the thing that I never thought would happen happened again? Because that is the one thing I do know. The one thing I do know is that the worst does happen.

It’s a gray day, as it should be. It was this way last year, too. I suspect it always will be.

You can’t prepare. It hits you about a week out, without warning. Sadness covers you like a blanket. You feel the weight of it and you carry it around all day until, at last, you can close your eyes and escape. With any luck, sleep takes your blanket and leaves a respite in its place. It might last a day, two days. This year I was lucky, I had a few good days before the words “Happy New Year” appeared as though written in red lipstick on the mirror in front of me. And that was that.

Yesterday my boss’s face appeared over the top of my cubicle.

“Enjoy your time off tomorrow.”

Filled with irrational rage, I stood up and left the space without speaking. A big part of me hopes he realizes sometime today. That same part, the hurting part, the part that I’m allowing to run rough-shod over any and everything today and only today, that part hopes that he feels like a worm when he remembers.

It’s 10:43 now. I’m still in my bathrobe, my hair looks like shit, and I’ve never needed a mani/pedi more in my whole entire life. But, I’m not smoking and the half-empty can of Coke Zero on my desk remains untainted. The jury’s still out on the cake. My son and I are having lunch. He, too, is marking another year. He and my daughter-in-law are choosing the restaurant. I may choose to eat cake.

That’s what today is about; making choices and leaving room…deciding not to smoke, how to dress, what to eat, and whether or not to live. And, I’m leaving room…for tears, irrational emotions…and, quite possibly, cake.

Spring Chickens

Earlier this winter, my girls were in trouble. When their combs faded from their usual red to a sickly pinkish-gray, I blamed the weather. It’s been a cold winter…much colder than usual…and two of my chickens are South American. I did what I could to winterize the henhouse, taking solace in the fact that their appetites were good. A couple of days later though, I found Pat, the “mother hen”, parading around naked from the wings down. Something was very wrong.

An internet search suggested mites or lice or some other microscopic vermin had invaded the henhouse. Several chemicals I couldn’t pronounce, much less afford, were suggested as treatment. I thought about the shaker can of Sevin dust sitting on a shelf in my utility room. When I was a kid, my mother used it to treat our dogs for fleas and they all turned out okay. It was worth a shot.

For the next two weeks I “winged it”. I dusted their roosts, the floor of their house and, despite their best efforts to the contrary, under their wings. Fortunately, Pat’s feathers seemed to reappear overnight, as temperatures at that time hovered around zero. Other than that, though, I saw little change. Their combs remained colorless.

Worrying would do no good. I resigned myself to the fact that I had done the best I could do, imagined for just a moment how distasteful the whole burying-a-dead-chicken-thing could be, and sent up a silent prayer to whoever might have been listening.

My dogs woke me early this morning. It wasn’t even seven am. Just a few minutes into our usual coffee/cuddle time, I realized the sky was brightening. The sun looked warm but I wasn’t fooled. I pulled my ugly, orange “chicken” coat on over my robe and set out towards the henhouse. As is their custom, all three dogs accompanied me to the gate before breaking off to chase each other around the perimeter of the fence, wreaking havoc with the azaleas.

As I approached the henhouse, I was greeted by the “thud”, “thud”, “thud” of chickens jumping from roost to floor in anticipation of my visit. A widening arc of light preceded me into the space, revealing a flurry of feathers moving chaotically in front of the door. The girls were eager to be outdoors. I followed them out and dumped a scoop of scratch over the side of their pen. Soon all four heads were bobbing in stereotypical fashion. And, that’s when I saw it. All four combs were red. No, not just red. They were a brilliant red, a gorgeous red, a healthy and happy red.

Filled with relief, I went back inside to clean house while they finished breakfast. As I reached down to grab a handful of straw, the ever-brightening morning light revealed an egg in a corner of the nesting box. It’s pale, pinkish-brown color told me it was courtesy of Pat. Only healthy hens lay eggs. Pat was going to be okay.

This morning, for the first time since November, I ate an egg that was in a chicken in my backyard yesterday. Forget that silly old groundhog. My girls tell me Spring is just around the corner!

Blame Game

As the oldest of four girls, I heard the question, “Who did this?”, a lot. “Where did that come from?” ran a close second, but never knocked “Who did this?” out of first place.

The question, of course, always led to pointing fingers and defensive whines. The words “…but she…” were thrown around quite a bit. I’m not saying those fingers were usually pointed at me…but my mother would.

Fast forward lots of years. It’s the late 80’s. MTV still played music videos and John Bradshaw was the darling of public television. Mr. Bradshaw wrote a book called “Healing The Shame That Binds You”, among others. He was featured prominently during pledge week. At the time, I was hoarding quarters in hopes of collecting enough to buy a box of Hamburger Helper, but I often dreamed of pledging and, when I did, I determined to do the magnanimous thing. I’d tell them to keep their silly old umbrella.

Bradshaw fascinated me for a number of reasons. He was good looking for one. And he had a great voice; a voice a father would have if you had that kind of father. You know the kind; the kind whose lap was yours for the taking, the kind that listened, the kind that comforted.

No, I didn’t have that kind either.

The thing I remember most when thinking of John Bradshaw, besides his delicious shock of salt and pepper hair, is the mobile. That’s what sucked me in, really; it was a simple thing. It might even have been made from a clothes hanger. Family members, represented by shapes cut from shiny paper, dangled from it. Bradshaw used the mobile to demonstrate that instability in one family member threw everyone else off balance. With a flick of his finger, he’d send one paper doll spinning. The rest followed suit in a crazy chaotic dance that demonstrated it didn’t matter who jumped first; in the end they were all hopelessly tangled up in their own strings.

Everyone loves a good whodunit…Who was the last one here? Who took the last paper towel? Who left the seat up? Who spilled the tea? Who moved the remote control? Who left the window down? And the classic…who let the dogs out?

Our society’s obsession with blame is the main reason I no longer talk politics. It’s impossible to make a comment, no matter how innocuous, without someone borrowing from my sisters and I; “But, he…”, “But, she….”, “But, they…” And we all know what happens next.

Mom gets the switch.

She never seemed to notice, but I did. Nothing good ever came from getting a switch. Despite her admonitions to the contrary, there was always lots of crying and, afterwards, Mom was red-faced and sweaty. We didn’t stop doing what she didn’t want us to do, we just did it better, more quietly, and with a heightened sense of accomplishment.

As the rare liberal living and working in a red sea of Bible-based Republicans, I’ve kept my head down since the partial government shut-down. (Even typing those words feels ridiculous…but I digress.) You can hear better with your head down, and what I hear is a lot of blaming. The paper dolls are dancing, and everyone is so busy pointing out who jumped first that no one noticed Mom going for the switch.

Maybe Ken Fisher watched John Bradshaw too. Fisher is the chairman of the Fisher House Foundation. On Wednesday, Fisher House committed to providing death benefits and transportation to family members of soldiers killed in the line of duty. Ken Fisher didn’t ask “who”. He kept his fingers to himself and, instead of muddying the waters with feckless accusations; he provided a solution to a problem caused by lesser men with bigger titles and lots to lose.

You can learn more about Fisher House Foundation here: http://www.fisherhouse.org/

Photo credit: http://www.diabetesmine.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/09/pointing-finger.jpg