>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.”

Attitude of Gratitude: A Juxtaposition of Contradiction

It’s not a sight you expect to see, especially when the day has aged past noon.

I can’t say what drew my attention, as I am known for keeping my eyes down, straight-ahead, and focused.

Yesterday, I looked up.

To my right, the sun smiled sweetly, warming autumn tinged breezes on her climb.

And on my left, the milky, waning moon had hung around to watch the show.

It was a beautiful juxtaposition of contradiction;

reminding me to remember,

to refuse limitations imposed by fear,

and to give thanks.

>Attitude of Gratitude: A Juxtaposition of Contradiction

>
It’s not a sight you expect to see, especially when the day has aged past noon.

I can’t say what drew my attention, as I am known for keeping my eyes down, straight-ahead, and focused.

Yesterday, I looked up.

To my right, the sun smiled sweetly, warming autumn tinged breezes on her climb.

And on my left, the milky, waning moon had hung around to watch the show.

It was a beautiful juxtaposition of contradiction;

reminding me to remember,

to refuse limitations imposed by fear,

and to give thanks.

And, His Name Is Palmer…

He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

Midway through our first game, and carrying a comfortable lead, the boys huddled up in preparation for another drive. The huddle broke, as Moms stood and strained to find the numbered jersey they had taken from the washing machine the night before. Several seconds passed before the ball sailed through the air, forcing every pair of feminine eyes away from the backs of their progeny, and onto the arc of brown leather. The catch was made, “the crowd went wild”, and a quarterback was born.

Now, three games into an eight game season, the situation is vastly different. The Panthers are trailing an unworthy opponent, and the starting quarterback is carrying a decided limp. Enter our nameless, faceless, voiceless hero.

I watch as this child, easily fifteen pounds lighter than most of the boys he is challenging, stands; steady, strong, and brave. He takes the snap and dances backwards, awkwardly, in a valiant imitation of a poster on his bedroom wall. His rail-thin arm raises, and he flings the leather in full knowledge he will be hit by a force much bigger, much faster, and much more athletic than he can ever hope to be. And he does so, without a flinch, without complaint; standing tall.

Seven times in a row, the play is repeated. Seven times he huddles with boys who won’t know him in school, come Monday. Seven times, they break and he takes his place in the hot seat. He takes seven snaps, and hurls the ball into the air seven times. And, seven times, the receiver fails to make a catch.

Every time the huddle breaks, I watch his thin, spandex covered body assume the position, and my fists clench in hope. This will be the time! This time he will catch it! And every time the ball hits the ground, or another child’s helmet, or a referee’s hands, I flinch, knowing we have to go back in…

And, soon, as the ball leaves his thin, pale fingers, I find myself unable to follow the trajectory, and, instead, seek to find the one who will deliver the blow. And, as I see the crash about to take place, my hand covers my mouth, and my eyes narrow as I hold my breath in sympathy.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

>And, His Name Is Palmer…

>
He has played football with this group of boys for, at least 3 years, already. And still, no one knows his name.

He is slight, pale, and thin. My son, who shares a huddle with him, has never heard him speak.

This boy is not my child. But, he is someone’s child. And he is brave, and valiant, and unexpected.

After the seventh throw, the ball has bounced off the turf into a waiting referee’s hands. Mercilessly repeated disappointment has silenced the crowd, and it happens before I know to stop it.

“DO WE HAVE A PLAN “B”?” I yell bravely, valiantly, unexpectedly, and, loudly.

Marking Time

I almost did,

And, then I didn’t.

We’ll both be better for it.

>Marking Time

>
I almost did,

And, then I didn’t.

We’ll both be better for it.

Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

The five of us shared a two-bedroom duplex. The morning I parted the drapes to see a worn, herculon-covered couch adorning the muscle-car crowded front yard of the unit across the street was the first hint that, in my haste, I had, perhaps, not chosen the best of neighborhoods in which to raise children.

Practicality reasoned that moving was impossible giving our subsistence on financial aid and a part-time salary. And still, on my way home from school, or work, or both, I often detoured through the winding lanes of suburban subdivisions.

One house, in particular called to me. She sat in a cul-de-sac at the end of several gracefully curved streets behind towering pines, as though shy. Someone had, regrettably, slathered her in brick-red paint, which explained her reticence to be on display, and yet she stood. In the early morning, a thin fog caressed the pines, allowing her some dignity. As afternoon burned, worn gray shingles bore the brunt of the heat and the pines cast long shadows on her weathered face. In the black of night, she shone, as banks of unfettered windows bore witness to the lives she sheltered while lighting a set of weathered thirty-year-old handprints cast in the concrete walkway before her.

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

A hallway bath whose wallpaper had begun to unfurl in complaint, was stripped, sanded, and painted in a textured, earthy brown. Thirty year-old mediterranean tile was salvaged to complete the room. It is warm, inviting, cozy, and welcoming.

My youngest son spent a week with his sister in a neighboring town. While he was gone, his room was transformed to reflect his maturity. School colors adorn his walls, and his love of sports and music is reflected throughout.

The browns of the bathroom flow into the adjoining hallway and the border above my head reminds me, “All Things Grow With Love”.

In three days time, my oldest son had transformed the rooms facing the street by swabbing crimson on the walls. I marveled at his carpentry skills as he measured and sawed through the sweat dripping from his Arian forehead, to create a chair rail for my dining room.

Covering the unfortunate brick-red façade took a little more time, but, at last, she is complete. Bathed in a rich khaki that compliments her brick, she sits gracefully on the lot, and Chinese red double-doors provide a ready welcome.

The yards, too, have been transformed. Tropical plants shade the patio while providing color, and outside the sitting area, an English-style garden blooms wild, and free. Farther up the landscape, our vegetable garden yields tomatoes, squash, eggplant, cucumbers, various herbs, and an assortment of peppers during the summer, and fresh leafy greens in the winter.

I loved her, on sight, and knew I could restore her to her original beauty and grace. She has returned the favor by cradling my family and providing a warm and welcoming haven for all who come here. This house has become our home, and I am grateful…

>Attitude of Gratitude: Our Home

>
In two weeks time, I had quit my job, applied to college (for the third go-round), received my acceptance letter, and moved my family back to my hometown. Whew!

We moved in 10 years ago. Renovation has been slow, but she has been patient.

Triple Grande 140 Degree No Foam Cinnamon Dolce Latte With Caramel On The Whip

(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)

The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
“Just a minute, honey.” The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. “My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second.”
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
“There!”, she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.

I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
“It’s your birthday, honey! Make a wish!”