>"Well…There’s the Problem!"

He is more like his Mom than any of my other children. He is opinionated, yet compassionate, he is strong, and, yet, remarkably weak, he is intelligent, yet questioning….

He has let his opinions fly, in this election year, on the strengths and weaknesses of the candidates, and never fails to bemoan the loss of Hillary.

And, still, I wonder… Does he really know? Is he informed, or merely led by his peer group, as so many of us are?

Upon announcement of the first debate, I made the decision that we would watch, together; as a family.

Days went by in limbo as one candidate waffled on his participation. Around noon today, the call came.

“McCain will participate. The debate is on.”

“I’m cooking…will you join us?”

He accepted, and with that, our plans were sealed.

Long lines, waiting for open gas pumps, precluded my usual entrance to the grocery store. Taking a circuitous route, I found a parking space quickly, and after ending a musically, brogue-laden, political conversation with my professor-friend, I went inside to procure the items I needed to prepare a special dinner.

The manicotti was rich, the salad fresh, and the bread had just the right amount of crunch, as my son questioned his father and I on the differences between “Republican” and “Democrat”. As the meal ended, Roger rose and began to tidy up in accordance with our long-standing tradition of, “I cook. You clean.”.

Accompanied by the sounds of running water, and colliding cutlery, my youngest son leaned forward in his chair, and asked, “But Mom, why are all my friends voting for McCain?”

Holding his eyes with mine, I met his lean.

“I hope it’s because that’s what they believe. Just like I hope you know that we want you to make your own decision.”

Sitting back in his chair, he looked towards the ceiling. That, and the finger he inserted between his front teeth, were his only signs of discomfort.

“You know? I really liked McCain…”, he started.

“Yeah?”, I encouraged.

“Yeah.”, he countered.

“But, I just don’t know about the girl.” He paused.

“I mean, he’s old! What if he dies? What if she has to be President?”

I felt the smile start in my eyes.

“What?”, he asked.

“You get it, Shane. You really get it!”, I exclaimed.

He relaxed against the seat-back as his eyes went, once again, towards the ceiling.

“I am so proud of you! You see the bigger picture. At your age, that’s great!”

Noise from the other room told us the debate was starting. Hurrying, we took our places.

We listened attentively. We remarked appropriately.

And then, Senator McCain dialed up President Reagan.

We listened.

As he finished, Shane’s form rose from the couch where he languished with dog, blanket, and pillow.

“Well, there’s the problem!”, he exclaimed. And with that, he fell back among the pillows. Within minutes, he slept; an old soul.

He didn’t watch till the end, but that’s ok.

He got the gist of it…

Has It Started Already?!

He calls me every morning at exactly the same time…

At 8:10, my cell-phone rings, and my 11 year old talks for ten minutes.

Without a breath.

“Hey, Mom, I locked the door. I have my homework. I ate my breakfast. The bus will be here in ten minutes. I wonder what we’ll have for lunch. I hate my social studies teacher. Football practice was awesome! You know how I told you about that kid, T. J.? Well, this is what I did last night….”

This makes me tired.

By now, I have walked to the front lobby of our building in order to ensure that my cell phone coverage will not be interrupted.

“Coach put the linemen in the backfield, just ‘cause we did such an awesome job on Saturday. He said he wanted to give us “a little love”. So, I’m standing back there, and Josh is about ten feet away, and Troy sails one….”

My head is in my hands, and I am breathing….

Listening and breathing….

“And, anyway, I think I got a good grade on my science test. I really feel pretty good about it. Oh,” Hey kitty”. My kitty’s here. Remember I told you about that kitty that sits with me until the bus comes? Well, she’s here. Wait….I’m gonna take a picture.”

Click.

I return to my desk and stand for several minutes in an effort to re-orient myself. The office phone rings several times, I put out several fires, and push back my chair, on my way to the water-cooler.

As I leave my office, I hear the ring that tells me I have a message.

The cat is long-haired, and calico, and though she apparently lives in my neighborhood and has a particular affinity for my son, I have never laid eyes on her before.

I show the picture to the resident cat-lover in our office whose 84 year-old eyes can’t quite make out the image. As I struggle to point it out, the phone in my hand rings, again.

“Ok, so it’s pretty cold out here, Mom. And, you know, there’s like no one else out here, so I just like put my hands in my pants. I mean, my hands were really cold and no one else could see. So I put them in there and they got warm, and so I took them out, and at the end of one of my hands was like this really LONG hair. And, I’m like “Oh, my God! Has it started already?” I mean this isn’t supposed to start now is it?”

The effort required to control my laughter silences me.

And, now, much softer, and much more insistent,

“Is it?”

Softly, persistant laughter infuses my voice as I assure us both.

“No, It’s ok. You’re ok.”

And, we are.

>Has It Started Already?!

>
He calls me every morning at exactly the same time…

At 8:10, my cell-phone rings, and my 11 year old talks for ten minutes.

Without a breath.

This makes me tired.

By now, I have walked to the front lobby of our building in order to ensure that my cell phone coverage will not be interrupted.

My head is in my hands, and I am breathing….

Listening and breathing….

Click.

As I leave my office, I hear the ring that tells me I have a message.

The cat is long-haired, and calico, and though she apparently lives in my neighborhood and has a particular affinity for my son, I have never laid eyes on her before.

I show the picture to the resident cat-lover in our office whose 84 year-old eyes can’t quite make out the image. As I struggle to point it out, the phone in my hand rings, again.

The effort required to control my laughter silences me.

And, now, much softer, and much more insistent,

“Is it?”

Softly, persistant laughter infuses my voice as I assure us both.

“No, It’s ok. You’re ok.”

And, we are.

Fall Festival

The woman threw her head back, and dark, luxuriant hair wafted down her back, as she gave into her laughter with full abandonment, unaware she was being observed. And, although I was out of earshot, I felt it as a loudly mellow, rolling sound of delight. She stopped walking and cinched up her simple cotton dress, as she wrapped her arms around her waist and looked down at the source of her amusement.

A young girl, maybe three or four years old, was scurrying away from the lake’s edge where a large mallard duck was thrashing about; wings flapping, dark neck arched. Wearing a left-over smile, the woman walked, again, towards the young girl, with a single hand outstretched.

Traffic at this midtown oasis is usually thick with fitness junkies running, young mothers pushing strollers, and older couples sitting on permanently mounted benches, tossing scraps of bread to waiting ducks until the trickling cascades of a large fountain, in the center of the lake, lulls them into reverie of days gone by.

So it was remarkable to realize that, today, there were just two visitors. I watched their interaction; the way the woman approached the girl with bemused compassion, and the tentative way the child turned to look at her. The autumn sun had painted them, and their surroundings, in multi-hued shadows, not visible just a few days before. Dark brown leaves stained the pristine concrete walkway on which they stood and a soft wind left the tops of the trees to swoop down, rippling the water before dancing in the woman’s skirt.

As Autumn blew in…

>Fall Festival

>
The woman threw her head back, and dark, luxuriant hair wafted down her back, as she gave into her laughter with full abandonment, unaware she was being observed. And, although I was out of earshot, I felt it as a loudly mellow, rolling sound of delight. She stopped walking and cinched up her simple cotton dress, as she wrapped her arms around her waist and looked down at the source of her amusement.

As Autumn blew in…

Knitting, through crochet…

We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

As the microwave whirred, Pat hefted a large, bulky, canvas tote onto the formica table, and, in flawless imitation of a magician pulling endless, multi-hued scarves from his sleeve, removed a voluminous afghan, or a bulky sweater, or an impossibly long scarf; each, a work in progress.

Lunchtime conversation was punctuated by the sound of a crochet needle clicking against the precious metal of her wedding band, as she regaled us with stories of her errant children, their benevolent, well-loved, father, or her demanding, octogenarian mother-in-law. Her voice was soft, slow, and deeply, deeply southern, and no matter which direction the conversation took, she never dropped a stitch.

I watched, in fascination, for months, before asking her to teach me her art. As it turned out, she knew only one stitch, but one was better than none, and soon there were two bulging tote bags atop the table.

My first project, an afghan for my daughter, was fashioned from the softest yarn, in a variety of soft pastels. As soon as I had draped all ten feet of it over her modest twin bed, I began again. This time, I worked in primary colors; creating bold stripes. The yarn was thick, and difficult to work with, making the afghan tighter in weave, and much shorter in length. As I tied off the final stitch, I searched frantically for another piece of furniture to drape.

Harking back to my past, when my mother displayed my great-grandmother’s handiwork on the back of our olive-green, vinyl couch, I chose, this time, to work in rusts, and browns, and creams. Final placement on the back of our well-worn, herculon sofa was tricky, given the oblong shape my creation had taken, but, if anyone noticed, they never said a word.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

Two years later, as we gathered around the large, brilliantly lit, Frasier-fir in my parent’s living room, I watched as each of my family members opened the bulbous, carefully wrapped gift I had provided. One by one, they extracted an identical cream-colored throw. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, as, time and patience, had provided an opportunity to learn. Each recipient cooed, sweetly, over my efforts, and I absorbed their appreciation with the surety that none of them knew the import of what they held.

Six months later, I stood outside my sister’s apartment in anticipation of meeting my new nephew. As my brother-in-law opened the door, I was assaulted by a chic sea of white, accented by large-paned windows admitting smog-stained light.

My sister sat, indian-style, on a rambling white sectional. My eyes searched her lap for a look at the baby inside her blanket covered legs. Dark circles under weary eyes did nothing to deter the radiance of her smile as she scooped her son up, in offering.

It was when she moved, that I saw it; the only thing of color in the room. As she rose, it fell in waves, replacing her body on the seat. The stitches were perfect, and the size, reasonable, and she did know…

>Knitting, through crochet…

>
We closed the store at noon everyday, for lunch.

And still, I stitched. My youngest son was graced with my largest effort, to date, in earth-tones of heather, khaki, blue, and white.

For Mattie…

She reads the words, but doesn’t hear them.

Years of indoctrination fail to police her actions, so that her beliefs have form in word, only.

She may seek repentance for her unmitigated attack, ignorant of the original Greek interpretation of the word; “to think differently afterwards”.

She will hope for atonement, based on a set of man-made beliefs.

And, should those beliefs be shown to have merit, she will surely find redemption,

as will we all.

Because, after all, the sacrifice has been made.

>For Mattie…

>
She reads the words, but doesn’t hear them.

Years of indoctrination fail to police her actions, so that her beliefs have form in word, only.

She may seek repentance for her unmitigated attack, ignorant of the original Greek interpretation of the word; “to think differently afterwards”.

She will hope for atonement, based on a set of man-made beliefs.

And, should those beliefs be shown to have merit, she will surely find redemption,

as will we all.

Because, after all, the sacrifice has been made.

The Keeper

I’d been working in the gardens all morning. The arrival of fall brings with it a whole new set of obligations to my landscape, and more opportunities for therapy in the form of pruning, shaping, digging, and watering.

Caught inside my thoughts, I held the sprayer over purple tinged leaves. The soft thud hardly registered. The ensuing scuffle did, and instantly I knew what was happening behind me.

I turned the sprayer on the dog, knowing her dislike of all things wet, and hoping it would supersede her dislike of small, furry animals. The sprayer won, and the squirrel lay in the pine straw; twisted unreasonably, breathing heavily.

I ran inside the house to find him at the computer, deeply engrossed in a sports blog.

“Come.”, my tone and my retreating back left no room for argument.

He took one look, and shooed me inside.

Several minutes later, he returned.

“It’s ok.”, he said, as he lowered himself into the chair while giving the mouse a shake.

As a friend of mine likes to say…

“This one’s a keeper.”