"Teach Your Children"

I wasn’t sure the car would stop. The street held remnants of an earlier rain, and the ball rolling into it, was a surprise. Even more startling was the young child who followed, despite a large group of variously aged family members congregated in his driveway. As I braked, I turned to look at his family, hoping someone would see the boy, and come to his aid. Several of them turned, looking in his direction.

Blessedly, the car did stop. As I sat, allowing the child to retrieve his ball and move well clear of the car, I turned again to look at his caretakers. Some continued to watch him, while the more oblivious of the group continued talking, and laughing, and jostling; no one moved, no one called out. The boy snagged his ball, and grazed me with dark, dancing eyes, before darting back into his driveway.

My son’s presence in the garage meant he had something to tell me that wouldn’t wait.

“Mom!” His inflection confirmed my suspicion.

He burbled as we carried my things inside.

“Science class was so cool today! Mr. Patterson, you remember him, right? Well, Mr. Patterson said he’d been waiting for a rainy day to tell us this story, right?”

He freed his hands by setting a bag on the kitchen table, and began using them to bat at the puppy, whose excitement on seeing his friend come inside was just as exuberant as it had been the first time, about thirty minutes before.

“It was about a witch. Well, not really a witch. Well, she WAS a witch, but now she’s a ghost, right? I mean, it’s kinda like “Blair Witch”, but not really.”

He continued to share his story, as I moved about the kitchen. Some of his words were lost in the sounds of cans scraping along shelves and refrigerator bins opening, but I understood the crux of his story. The long and short of it, was that Mr. Patterson had set aside the business of beakers and microscopes to take advantage of a rainy day, by regaling a roomful of eleven-year-olds with his stories of adolescent close-encounters with beings from “the other side”. Unfortunately, in arriving at this decision, Mr. Patterson had forgotten his role as authoritarian. He had underestimated his own importance by sharing a frightening story with children who are directed, daily, to listen to him, and to remember every word he utters.

The next morning, I awoke to a pile of blankets on the floor beside my bed. And, somewhere in that pile, lay my frightened, sleeping son.

Shane held his cell-phone behind his back.

“Mom? Can I go to the movies with Koran?, he stage-whispered.

I asked all the usual questions; what, when, where, and gave my consent. As he ran, grinning, back to his bedroom to change, my cell-phone rang. It was Jill, mother of Alex.

“Is Shane going to the movies with Koran?”

“Yes. Is Alex?”

“Did you know that they are dropping the kids off? There will be no parents…I don’t know.”

Anger crowded my embarrassment.

“No, I didn’t know that. Let me call you back.”

I called Koran’s father, who back-pedaled furiously when questioned. I thanked him for the invitation and called Jill to tell her Shane wouldn’t be going. Her sigh spoke her relief, and I thanked her. We watch out for each other…

Laughter breached the closed door to the playroom as Shane and two boys who live next door played video games.

“Lunchtime!”, I called, imagining myself in belted shirt-dress, high heels, and pearls. June Cleaver’s got nothing on me.

Six hands vied for space under the bathroom spigot before the boys barreled into the kitchen to ham and cheese on wheat, Sunchips, and milk.

“Is there mayonnaise on this?” Ray studied his sandwich without touching it.

“Mayo and mustard.”, I answered, still in character, before resuming wiping the counters.

“Mom?” This was my son.

“Yes?”

“Do we have any vanilla stuff? You know, for the milk? They don’t drink plain milk. They like vanilla.”

I turned to find my storybook lunch decimated. Shane, his back to me, munched contentedly on the contents of his plate. To his left, two slices of discarded bread messily decorated the outskirts of a plate, while his friend held the formerly sandwiched slice of ham to his mouth. To his right, Ray had finally found the nerve to touch his food, removing all traces of mayo, leaving a slice of bread topped by mustard and ham. Both glasses of milk remained untouched.

“No, I’m sorry. And, I’m sorry you don’t like your lunch.”

“It’s okay, Mom.” Shane rushed to my defense. “It’s just that they don’t eat brown bread. They like white. And Ray doesn’t like mayonnaise, and their Mom always puts vanilla in the milk. But, that’s okay.”

That evening, the boys’ mother returned the favor, inviting Shane to dinner.

“What did you have?”, I asked on his return.

“Chicken nuggets.”, he answered. “They always have chicken nuggets. That’s what they like.”

Somehow, I can’t imagine the boys’ father braving the hazards of a drive across town in Atlanta traffic, thinking, “Mmmm, chicken nuggets!”

My sister will be late to her own funeral. This was my thought as I rested my head against the gaily colored mural adorning the wall of the local “Rio Bravo”. The trill of a cell-phone caught my attention, and seeking the sound, my eyes came to rest on a girl of about six. She flipped the phone open with one perfectly manicured hand, while the other rested on the denim-clad knee of a man I supposed to be her father. She brought the phone to her ear and turned, revealing a powdered face, featuring painted lips, carefully placed glitter, and several coats of black mascara. I’m sure my mouth fell open.

One tiny foot rocked back and forth on the tip of a stacked heel as she talked. The pink polish on her nails matched, perfectly, the hue of a sweater that clung to her board-flat chest before falling over expensively tattered jeans. Her future flashed across my eyes, leaving me with a feeling of profound sadness for her squandered childhood

Shane’s cell-phone had rung at least twenty times over the course of an hour.

“Who is that?”, I asked, irritated by the sound of my mother’s voice coming from my mouth.

“Valerie…” Shane’s voice, too, sounded stressed. He took advantage of a break in the noise to go outside, picking up a basketball on his way towards the goal.

When the offending noise began again, I picked up the telephone, intending to tell Valerie to cut back on her calls before I was forced to have a talk with her mother.

The Caller-ID bore her mother’s name and cell-phone number, but the voice on the other end of the line was Valerie’s. I made no such threat.

His efforts at whispering drew my attention.

“I know, but we’re changing plans in June. It doesn’t make sense to buy a new phone now.”

The span of his silence suggested his wife’s increasingly shrill voice.

“He can use my old phone.” These words were louder, more forceful, in keeping with a man with a plan.

Another silence ensued, and when conversation continued, it went on for some time, though he spoke few words.

Later, he visited the office across from mine.

“My son lost his phone.”

“Can’t he just use your old one until we change plans in June?” , his sensible friend asked. “Buying a new phone now would just be a waste of money, because it won’t work with the new plan.”

“She wants to get him another Razor. She’s worried what his friends will think.”

His friend’s derisive chuckle spoke volumes.

“I told her we’d just use mine.”

Later that afternoon, his loquacious wife, with children in tow, came by to pick him up on their way to purchase the Razor.

“What are you doing this weekend?” I asked, as the clock ticked towards four, and our two-day pass.

“I’m taking my son to a birthday party at the Roxy.”, came the bored-sounding answer.

“The Roxy?”, I asked, incredulous. “THE Roxy? The concert hall downtown? A twelve year-old child is having a birthday party at the Roxy?”

“Yeah…it’s to make up for all the bot-mitzvahs.”

I had no answer for that.

What will become of our children? It seems every passing day presents me with another horrifying example of adults who have seemingly forgotten their role. A young child is allowed to follow a ball into a rain-soaked road in front of an oncoming car, and they watch. A science teacher, whose words are expected to form the minds of our children, spends an entire class period convincing them that witches and ghosts are not just the stuff of Halloween charades. A group of eleven year-old boys and girls are invited to a Sunday afternoon movie by parents who can’t be bothered to chaperone. A Harvard educated mother feeds her children a diet so consumed by frozen, fried chicken and vanilla flavored milk, that sandwiches on whole-grain, accompanied by organically produced milk, appear exotically disgusting. I shared a restaurant waiting room with a six-year-old whose make-up was applied more professionally than mine. A mother, apparently, never questions her daughter about hundreds of calls made from her cell phone to a boy she sees, every day, in their sixth-grade classroom. A boy’s father caves to his ranting mother, by spending money on a cell phone that will be useless in less than six months; in an effort to retain pre-pubescent social status. And, an entire concert hall, complete with seating for several thousand, is rented in honor of a twelve-year-old girl who had the misfortune of being born to Christian parents.

How long before the odds play out? Who do our children have to look up to? When did outings and fancy electronics replace structured caring and responsibility? When did children begin making decisions that affect an entire family? As they cry through smeared mascara, who will explain objectivism to our girls? What is left? What will they have to look forward to; to work towards? How will they define “special”?

Too Little, Too Late?

I went to work at the age of fifteen, mostly in an effort to ensure that my wardrobe reflected my tastes, and of course current trends, instead of what was on sale at Sears/Roebuck. As I flipped through the racks at Lerner’s, Gloria Steinem turned the world on its ear.
I remember wondering why she had chosen to thread the earpieces of her large, tinted, aviator glasses over her hair, instead of hiding them underneath, as the rest of us did. She had to be close to my mother’s age, but instead of going every six weeks to the beauty shop for a style and set, Gloria grew her hair long, allowing the strands to drape her painted face along the line of a stylish center part. She wore short skirts and knee-high boots instead of the polyester pull-on pants and knit tops my mother favored. And she spoke, in measured, succinct tones, of the oppression of women, and their unheralded strength and value. I had discovered a hero.

The birth of my first child ignited in me, a breed of love I have never experienced before, or since. When my daughter was six weeks old, I reentered the job market, as promised, and worked for two weeks in a local department store. Coming home to two miserable females convinced my husband that our financial obligations could be met by one salary. Nine months later, I was pregnant, again. The prohibitive cost of daycare for two babies made me a stay-at-home Mom, who contributed to the family finances by caring for three unrelated children during the day.

Following a pattern set by my mother, I developed an interest in soap operas, timing my morning chores around the television schedule. As theme music began to play over the final act, I reached for the telephone, beginning a daily marathon of conversation with another mother, that ended precisely one hour before the sound of rubber crunching gravel announced my husband’s arrival home. Dinner rolls browned as he showered, and if I timed it just right, they both emerged at the same time.

Gloria, and others like her, referred to me as a “couch potato”. Soap operas and well-timed dinners had brought with them my mother’s wardrobe, and as Gloria stylishly stomped across the stage to shake Mike Douglas’ hand, I looked down at my widening, polyester draped hips. She flipped her hair back, and I self-consciously fingered the clip that tamed my un-coiffed mane. She spoke words that used to come from my lips, before my vocabulary consisted of the single syllables of my children’s picture books. And, with those words, she urged me to own my life, to shake off oppression, to look my husband in the eye and demand my right to make my mark.

Within weeks, I was dropping my youngest son at a local church daycare before the sun’s warmth had dried the dew from the grass we used to play in. My two older children were in school, and my presence, when the school bus pulled up in front of our house every afternoon, assured me that I was living “the life”, “having it all”. And, I’ve never looked back. My path has followed the course Gloria promised. I’ve risen in the ranks, I’ve padded my pocketbook, and I’ve got the big-screen TV, late-model automobile and designer handbags to prove it.

Last week, as I urged my shiny, red car down rain-slick streets in an effort to be home in time for my son’s basketball game, the radio dial came to rest on one of hundreds of satellite enhanced offerings. A young woman bemoaned the travails of working-motherhood; the pressed schedules, the unreasonable demands, feelings of inadequacy. The measured tones of a well-known, conservative talk show host filled my car, and Gloria urged my well-manicured index finger towards the dial, but before I could reach, I heard.

“Did you ever think that the reason you don’t enjoy being a stay-at-home Mom is because YOU don’t appreciate your own worth; YOU don’t think what you do is valuable? Did you ever think you may have been sold a bill of goods?”

My eyes strayed, again, to the clock in my dash; thirty minutes to game-time. I thought of my daughter, draped in polyester, passing her days in manufactured housing twenty-five minutes from the closest grocery store, standing at the bus-stop with an umbrella in one hand, and a dog’s leash in the other.

Her lack of drive has always bothered me. The decision to enroll her in classes for the gifted was not an easy one. I worried about the pressure, and possible ostracism from those who were tracked for mediocrity. I placed her, and she excelled until an older boy from the “wrong side of the tracks” bounced his seemingly permanently affixed cigarette in her direction.

Despite every intervention offered in every psycho-babble book I’d ever read, and a few I came up with on my own, she was lost to me, until an inevitable stint in state prison interrupted their courtship, as my nemesis traded his Camels for a neon-orange pant-suit.

His departure from her life took with it nearly thirty pounds. Fit and lithe, she marketed herself, again. Eric fancied himself a guitarist the likes of Jimmy Page. His black, leather jacket was expensive. His vocabulary included words like “please”, and “thank you”. His eyes sparkled over a Greek menu he was more than willing to try, and I was sold.

Six months later, when my daughter called with the news of her pregnancy I asked her in measured tones, “Are you prepared to raise this child alone?”.

“But I won’t, Mama”, was her answer.

And she hasn’t. Christopher, her husband, is a kind, calm, wise, loving father who went to work, everyday, at five-thirty in the morning. When he came home, around four, he liked to play video games until supper was ready, which he followed with a shower, and bed. Two weeks ago, the air conditioning plant in which he worked succumbed, as have so many, to financial crisis. On the day she got the news, my daughter called to tell me she would be going full-time at her former weekend job.

As I sat in my car, with eyes darting between dashboard clock and traffic light, I finally appreciated her sacrifice. I arrived home amidst a flurry of game-time preparations, and as my son went in search of yet another missing sock, withdrew my check book from my bag. Wrapping the check in a scribbled note, I handed the envelope to my over-anxious basketball star directing him to drop it in the box while I locked up.

Two days later, just as I had expected, the telephone rang and I answered to the sound of my daughter’s appreciative voice.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know I didn’t. You didn’t ask for it. But I wanted you to have it, and I want you to know why.” I plopped into my office chair, rolling to the spot offering the best view through the bank of windows that comprise the opposite wall.

“You and I don’t always see eye to eye. I know I’ve pushed you to do more, be more. Today, I realized that what you have been doing is very important, and while forces outside of your control have dictated that you change your priorities, I hope that change will be temporary. That money is between me and you. I expect you to use it to meet needs left unmet by your income. But, I also expect you to support Christopher by encouraging him to get out there and find another job, so that one day soon, you can go back to being…just a Mommy. This is my way of letting you know, I get it.”

She was silent for a few moments before saying simply, and quietly, “Thank you, Mom.”

Synchronicity

My visit with Miss Lucie went well. She knew me! You never know, and you take what you can get. But, she knew me, and the time passed as though we had visited the weekend before. The woman is a blessing. My lips, upon her forehead, came away softer.

Dinner with a friend, after an awkward embrace accompanied by pat excuses, morphed into my first dinner alone within the confines of a restaurant. It felt as I had imagined it would. I read, I ate, I left. End of story.

Yesterday was a gift from God, a teasing reminder of days to come. Cool breezes warmed easily on the kiss of a winter sun, allowing me to complete my tasks in my shirtsleeves. I pinched pansies, planted amaryllis, and mowed my lawn. Later, moisture tinged breezes urged me to fold my arms as I observed meat grilling under a waning sun.

Monday dawned on an unexpected rain, and hope. I checked in on a friend whose absence worried me. His response reminded me of both, the ease and importance of expression. An arm outstretched reminds another of his worth, and he, in kind reaches out. Such is synchronicity…

Oh, My Darlin’…

“You wait!” A familiar sneer leant my mother’s words an equally familiar tone of acridity. “You wait! You’ll wish you had this time back! Time moves faster the older you get. Why, at my age, a year goes by in a blink of an eye.”

As a kid, who had probably just bemoaned a yawning three week wait until Christmas, her admonition had no more effect than her frequent wishes for my future.

“I hope you have children, and I hope they cause you just as much trouble as you’ve caused me.”

As it turned out, she was right, on both counts.

I have heard the month of January described as meaningless after the hustle and bustle of a holiday season that now seems to span several months. There is, of course, an introspective aspect to January, coming as it does, after weeks of economic, gastronomic, and even alcoholic depravity.

New Year’s Day dawns on millions of hung-over, antacid-swilling Americans, who greet the day holding a television remote control. Football-filled hours pass in a semi-upright position, interrupted only by the odors of foods said to be infused with magic powers on this day, and this day only. More often than not, it is while we are pushing collard greens around the perimeter of our plate, that someone floats the topic of New Year’s resolutions. As we anticipate finally being able to access a beer without encountering a well-maintained eyebrow raised by the “time police”, we attempt to discern a recognizable image in the smattering of cornbread crumbs stuck in gravy remnants before answering.

And, no matter the answer, we finally manage to pull from the refuse that is our dinner plate, one thing is sure; by January thirty-first we will have forgotten it. This is the stuff of January.

Recently, though, I’ve discovered other reasons to mark January.

January is the month of the Clementine. In case you are not familiar with this delectable nugget of sugary citrus, a Clementine is cousin to the tangerine. A friend tried, for years, to sell me on their merits, but to my discerning eye they appeared nothing more than a miniature tangerine at twice the price. I couldn’t imagine anything about them being worth double the money…until my son tasted them.

Usually imported from Spain and neighboring regions, these tiny, orange morsels are sold almost exclusively in crates. This feature originally, prohibited me from buying them. This year, after tasting one provided by my friend, I decided to chance unloading a crate of citrus on a family usually partial to meatier fruits such as apples, pears, and melons. Within days, my son was urging me to return to the store for another crate, and when I tasted one, I understood why.

That was three crates ago, and on Saturday, I carefully placed one of the last three available into my grocery cart. Clementine season is winding down. We’re treating this crate as though it will be our last, because it just might be.

This weekend, I discovered another reason to mark the passing of January. My Christmas cacti, inaccurately named as they begin blooming just after Thanksgiving, are waning. I have, over the years, collected a virtual grove of cacti by taking advantage of post-holiday plant sales. At present I nurture eight, in varying shades. This year, for the first time, all of them bloomed.

My grandmother raised Christmas cacti, and I loved one of them, especially. It was at least two feet in diameter, and bloomed in a lovely, deep, shade of pink. Visits to her house were warm, due in part to her attention to the thermostat, but also because of our shared interests. She knew I loved plants, and she loved to share. Every time I visited, she pinched off shoots of any plant I admired, urging me to root them. And, I did.

Today, my largest Christmas cactus, started as an offshoot of the one I so admired, measures over two feet in diameter. She is old. There are unattractive striations upon her leaves, and yet she blooms, gloriously, year after year. When others tease, putting out buds that never come to full fruition before the foliage shrivels; she blooms, and blooms, and blooms. I fertilize her, in warmer months. I water her, judiciously at first, until the buds begin to squeeze from her succulent fronds, whereupon I strengthen her by plying her with liquid. And she responds to my ministrations, year after year, after year.

Withered blooms fell into my watering can yesterday. The show is nearly over. As I looked around the sunroom, I enjoyed, possibly for the last time, each and every bloom; bright pink, salmon red, and white, with just a trace of pink lining each petal.

And I marked January, wondering where the time had gone.

Saturday Morning

The warm sun and gracious breezes of yesterday are gone. The morning dawns on rain; a reminder to be careful what you wish for….

I’ve sat here for too long, as per usual. So many distractions, so much ether-noise. I’m contemplating creating a net-free day; just one day, every week, during which the rolling chair in my office is allowed to grow cold. I’m warming to the idea.

I prefer lazy Saturdays. Yawning days upon which I can paint whatever vista my mind creates. Today is not one of those days. After struggling to bring some semblance of order to my domicile, I will pull on my warmest athletic clothing and accompany my son to his basketball game. We’ve had fun this year. We are winning, due in large part to my son’s ability. Success breeds fluidity.

A more expansive frame of mind encouraged me to contact a friend and arrange a dinner date for later this evening. As happens so frequently, now that the time is upon me, I consider offering my regrets. But I won’t. I’ll go. We’ll meet in the parking lot, and exchange the usual feminine greetings, or perhaps commiserate about the weather. Once inside, we’ll sit on opposite sides of a highly burnished wooden table and scan the crowd with full knowledge that we are miles from familiar faces. The menu will provide a private moment in which to compose our made-up faces while we flip through a mental tickler file of conversation topics until a particularly savory offering captures our attention, bringing us back to the task at hand. I’ll consider ordering something fatty and delicious, but I’ll give a cursory look at the column featuring soups and salads. I’ll make a choice to keep in my back pocket until time to order, when I’ll encourage her to choose first. My choice will be incumbent upon hers. After all, if her attempts at conversation are punctuated by forkfuls of vinegar-spiked, leafy greens, a beefy morsel won’t rest easily upon my palate.

I was reminded, this week, of the psychological benefits of good works. Today, I am returning to the nursing home. The hospice is housing four patients there. I will visit those I can find. Ms. Lucie is still there. I am looking forward to seeing her. I wonder if she will remember me. Of course, she rarely knew me when she saw me every week, so the question seems a little ridiculous. One the other hand, it really doesn’t matter. It doesn’t seem important to her that she know who you are, it is only important that you are, and that you are there. I never left her without a smile. I’m looking forward to wearing one today.

Biscuits

I never mastered the art of biscuits.

Though she didn’t do it very often, my mother made excellent biscuits. She called them Angel biscuits. Feeding a family of my own, I googled the recipe, and tried it. My children, whose exposure to sports was limited to the southern mainstays of football and baseball, exhibited an unexpected knowledge of hockey in describing an appropriate use for these biscuits.

My father enjoyed bread with dinner but, more often than not, his yen was satisfied by two slices of “Colonial” white bread riding one side of his generously filled plate. The rest of us ate breadless, and the blessing does not go unrecognized.

Holidays were marked by “dinner rolls”, usually purchased from Rich’s bake-shop. I remember them as small, delectable, little fluffs of bread. I probably could have eaten my weight in them, but the napkin lining the bread basket was carefully secured after the first offering, and my father’s hand was the only one allowed a second chance.

To my mind, the pièce de résistance of the roll kingdom measured a mere finger-width, and was only offered as an accessory to a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. One of these, cradling a dollop of gravy, and I forgot all about the chicken. Long ago, these rolls went the way of Rich’s bake-shop, replaced, of course, by biscuits.

Occasionally, and usually at breakfast, my mother rapped open a can of biscuits. My father seemed satisfied no matter what form of fiber sat upon his plate. I, however, found canned biscuits an unsatisfactory fabrication of the real thing. No amount of grape jelly transformed this pig’s ear into a satin purse.

My former husband was raised in the tiny town of Jefferson, Georgia, by a mother who knew her way around a southern kitchen. And while he never complained about the dinners I fashioned from the tins and boxes of my youth, he moved canned green beans from one side of his mouth to the other, as he told stories of bigger, greener beans, slow-cooked on the back of a stove for hours, and biscuits, used to sop up the “pot liquor”.

He was there when I attempted to recreate my mother’s angelic recipe, graciously refusing to lend his voice to the discussion of ice-hockey, choosing instead to described biscuits the way he’d come to know them; large squares, cut from a single slab of dough. It became my mission to uncover this long-held culinary secret.

Viola Carroll was a formidable woman. Striated skin, hanging from space once occupied by her tricep, spoke of former girth. She was tall, a good six inches taller than I, and vocal. If she thought it, she said it; and, this knowledge, alone, was enough to put me on my best behavior. I dressed, before we left, in my most becoming casual outfit, in an effort to quell her tongue. Viola expected a woman to be “dressed”.

Our arrival was always met graciously, as Viola went for her purse. Viola always needed something from the grocery store. She gamely folded her generous frame into the bucket-seat of my aged Toyota wearing a look of anticipation heretofore only seen on a canine head hung from a car window.

As we bounced between traffic lights, Viola steadied herself upon a black, vinyl handbag boasting a faux-gold snap.

“I like yowah little cah, but this heah road sho is bumpy!”

Even now, the memory of those words brings a smile to my face.

Our foray of the local discount grocery store complete, Viola demonstrated, for me, the artistry of southern biscuits. They were, indeed, carved from a single slab of dough which she manipulated between country-sized hands, for several minutes, before slamming the mass onto an unsuspecting jelly-roll pan. A large, well-worn, butcher’s knife quickly separated the colorless blob into generous squares before her hands bounced the sides into shape. The result was toasted to a golden hue on top, leaving the middle ethereally transparent. As the fibrous mass melted upon my tongue, I knew nothing I could conjure would recreate that kind of bliss.

Fortunately, for me, there was “Bisquick”; a couple of cups of powder, poured from a gaily-colored box, mixed with water, and voilà, biscuits! Following, Viola’s example, I slammed tablespoon-sized blobs onto an unsuspecting jelly-roll pan.

Today, on the rare occasion I venture to place biscuits on my southern dinner table, I must first remove them from a frozen, plastic bag. I understand the result is every bit as satisfying as my mother’s Angels, and Viola’s squares, especially when dunked in yellow syrup.

Catharsis

Anti-depressants helped take the edge off during the divorce. The adjunct prescription for sleeping pills was suggested by my doctor, from whom sympathy, upon hearing my story, literally oozed. It was what I needed at the time.

Not a big fan of sleep, I never finished the first bottle of sleeping pills, and, given the current reports of drug-supported, sleep-walking drivers, I am grateful.

The anti-depressant, however, became a mainstay. During the euphoric period, which lasted several months, I bought a car, quit my job, applied to college, and moved back to Atlanta. I engineered, for myself and my children, a new start.

And, we made it work. I am now employed by a good company, making a good living that supports a nice lifestyle in a bustling metropolis filled with opportunity. Current economic challenges aside, my older children are thriving in their new capacity as masters of their own destiny.

I met a man here, whose capacity to embrace my family did more to ease his way into my heart than flowers or pretty words. We raise my youngest son together, and Roger relishes the experience as though he was born to it. Shane attends the best public schools available and participates, successfully, in sports programs, year-round.

Several months ago, as I reflected upon our successes, I realized the folly of a person in my position ingesting mood-altering chemicals. It didn’t appear as an epiphany. It wasn’t an “Ah-hah” moment. It was, simply, a decision.

Unwilling to work without a net, I refilled my prescription a final time, tucking the unopened envelope into a drawer, where it remains.

And, I’ve learned a lot.

The first lesson came quickly, within weeks of my “sobriety”. While talking with a friend on the telephone, I heard joy in my laughter, and a lightness in my voice. Unshed tears sat close, in the corners of my ears, ready to flow at the first sign of poignancy. Babies, in my absence, had, somehow, grown sweeter, and seniors more enjoyable. I realized that while I hadn’t felt much pain for many years, neither had I appreciated wonder, small wonders; a frolicking puppy, a burgeoning tulip, a majestic sunset, a single word, chosen for its capacity to reach my heart.

Of course, the day did come when even my newfound joy wasn’t enough to warm the cockles of my heart. Hours usually pass before I awaken to the feeling. The day dawns, like any other day, and I go about my routine, until I notice my plodding footfalls, my listless speech, and bland affect. A look inside reveals murky darkness. Early on, the view alarmed me, setting in motion a mental slide-show, in hopes of discerning a cause; an event, a person, an unpleasant task, a caustic conversation, a disturbing memory. Failure, on most occasions, to uncover a culprit, qued-up a series of lectures I have received over the years, heralding the advances of modern medicine and my obligation to partake of its offerings. These practitioners pass around the word “organic” as though it were a virtual “Get Out Of Jail Free” card. The words mesmerize while soothing, so that the listener never even notices the acrid pill placed upon the tongue.

Organic depression can be caused by a disease process wherein key areas of the central nervous system are affected. The aforementioned doctor felt I suffer from one of these diseases, prompting his prescription. My own research supports his theory. But, I also know this; everyone has “bad” days, every one of us, even the most positive among us. I’m even willing to venture a guess that such notable positive thinkers as Marianne Williamson, Eckhart Tolle, and even Norman Vincent Peale, himself, have had a “bad” day. But, they get through it. They recognize it, they accept it, and they get through it, because, eventually, a new day dawns.

The key, for me, is to channel my feelings. I enjoy many mind-freeing activities. I love music. I do needlework while watching football. My garage is decorated by several unfinished paintings. A partially completed jigsaw puzzle fills a table in my office. I’ve clocked hundreds of miles on foot. But, my most recent revelation comes in realizing the blessing offered by the catharsis of writing.

Last week wasn’t easy. My son-in-law lost his job, and a friend, whose strength I had come to rely upon, melted into his clay feet. Life went on. I woke every day, followed my routine, and recognized my state of mind, hoping tomorrow would be better. It wasn’t.

A couple of mornings ago, I sat down to write, and has been the case, so often lately, found myself dry. But, I wrote anyway. The completed work wasn’t landmark. I hadn’t said anything important. There were no pithy phrases, or carefully concocted sentences. But, as I applied the last period to the last sentence, I smiled. A feeling of relief washed over me, as I realized a sliver of light had pierced my soul. I had discovered a new drug.

The bad days really suck. The good days make it worth it.

Word of the Day: Mercurial

I like the word “mercurial”. It virtually dances on the tongue, fraught, as it is, with alphabetical curly-cues and trills. When I say it, out loud, I immediately flash on the word “ethereal”. On first thought, I supposed this to be an accident of pronunciation, but, in truth, there is an other-worldly essence to them both.

Mercury, dubbed Hermes by Greek mythologists, was the messenger god. He was also associated with trade, travel, and speed, as symbolized by winged feet. Early Celtic art endows him with three heads, and sometimes three penises, all of which he put to good use.

Borrowing from Norse mythology, followers of the occult assign Mercury dominion over all things magical via a circuitous route that ends, apparently, on Wednesday. The French word for Wednesday is “Mercredi”, and in Spanish “Miercoles”.

Mercury enjoyed great popularity in early Rome, inspiring many heroic stories, even though, interestingly enough, he may have lacked initiative; acting, almost always, at the behest of someone else. Apollo, Zeus, and Odysseus used him to do their dirty work, as he was well versed in the art of trickery.

He was born of an illicit union, and embraced his father’s tradition, on a grand scale, enjoying some of the most beautiful of mythological women; among them, Aphrodite, Penelope, and Chione. The fruit of these unions mirrored his duality of nature. His son, Pan, was lauded as the god of shepherds, music, and fertility. More recently, however, his image has been borrowed for use as the depiction of Satan. Another son, the beautiful Hermaphrodites, suffered gender reassignment after spurning the advances of a scornful nymph, and later, exacted his own revenge by praying that an entire body of water be spoiled, such that anyone who swam there lost his virility.

Mercurial: “2) having qualities of eloquence, ingenuity, or thievishness attributed to the god Mercury or to the influence of the planet Mercury, 3) characterized by rapid and unpredictable changeableness of mood”

I like to say the word. I like to hear it. But, recently, I have realized I don’t enjoy people who are it.

Because I Can

My Dear JD,

The title of your diatribe put me in mind of a brilliant writer I know. Thanks for wasting no time in dispelling that notion. You got here the same way the rest of us did…you’re no better…I guess you could be worse.
You, sir, are arrogant drivel, and the picture, that you apparently could not tear your eyes away from, is of a woman, not a man; a mother, in fact. You may have deduced this yourself, had you but read, rather than scanned, the piece. Perhaps, though, you are still in the picture book phase, choosing to peruse rather than read…and that’s ok, but, you should still seek context. You’ll get more out of the pictures that way.
I am “40ish”, with a goal to be “50ish”, one day in the not too distant future, and since you read me I’m assuming you’ve realized, by now, that I am published. Given that we obviously reside on two very different planes, despite your stated geographic proximity, I hesitate to guess what you would consider “serious meat”. I would suggest, if you are truly interested, that you go back and read. You may decide for yourself. And, it isn’t necessary that you share your conclusions, I am secure, and somewhat comforted, by the fact that we will not see eye to eye.
You needn’t have shared your living on a cusp. I assumed as much very early on, as you presented prose without pictures, leaving me no option other than to read, and digest, your inanity. Judging from your description, I think it fair to say you may have found your niche.
The morphine explains a lot. Might I suggest you collect a few more chips before you waste any more time “reading” and/or writing? While it is true that some of the world’s most prolific and profound authors struggled to hold their pens upright as they created out of a chemical induced haze, it is also true that they enjoyed talent, untainted, and perhaps enhanced by, insanity. You, sir, may not be of that ilk.
I worry about very little, as I consider it a past-time affording little, or no, return, and, you, my pain-wracked detractor, are but a blip on my radar. As for being “too busy”, you caught me at a good time. I am rarely “busy” at 6:00 am, on a weekend morning. I rose with a desire to write, but, sadly, a lack of motivation or subject matter. You provided me with both, and, for that, I thank you.

Very truly yours,

Broken Circles

“Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

An aching silence sucked the air out of her, making it impossible to breathe.

“Which is it? Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

Challenge rode in, on words spoken matter-of-factly, without malice.

“For some reason you felt you had to settle. For some reason you felt like you weren’t good enough. Which was it?”

Unspoken words sparked the air, clenching her teeth, as she fought an overwhelming compulsion to cover her ears. She knew what was coming, and wasn’t sure she could hear it again.

“Were you dumb, fat, or ugly?”

She whimpered, softly.

“Who was it? Who was the bad guy?” Kindness and compassionate appreciation tinted words spoken barely above a whisper. “Was it your mother? Your father?”

Tears welled in the corners of her eyes, closest to her nose, as she felt, at once, relieved to have been given permission, and desperate to maintain composure. And, even as she battled, she recognized that the fight, too, was a problem.

Feelings rushed in on the image of her mother’s face; a scowl, a smirk, a sneer. She tried, for years, to find a smile, one smile; a smile of doting adoration, a smile of gentle understanding, a smile of quiet gratitude, a smile of genuine enjoyment. There were no smiles; not for her.

And, the words came; sharp words, strong words, words children shouldn’t speak, and can’t understand; “Idiot”, “Stupid”, “Imbecile”. And, even as they repeated, in her mother’s voice, inside her head, she wondered if, in some bizarre way, she should thank her. Did epitaphs flung at her school-aged head, in some warped way, spark an interest in vocabulary, a love of words, a need to understand? Did the constant state of confusion, mixed with a certainty of her valuelessness, spur, in her, compassion?

The vision she conjured was one of abject submission, as the picture of her mother, hate-filled sneer firmly in place, loomed down at her, hands on hips. She never understood what she did, or how she did it. She never understood the hate, the sadness, the feeling that her mother would rather be anywhere else.

With time, the feelings became memories she only had to feel on the drive down at Christmas, or Easter, or some other holiday. Placing one hand on a doorknob she’d turned thousands of times before, she held her breath, allowing her features time to compose a practiced mask of confidence, strength, and composure. She stood tall, holding her mother’s jade-infused eyes with hers, brown, and snapping, until a slumping of her mother’s shoulders, or a look of proud dismissal, gave her permission to move into the next room, where, at last, she exhaled.

The vision comes again, and, this time, she sees her own childish face; open, innocent, and needy. Questions fly around, inside her head, as she gazes down upon her own countenance.

“Why couldn’t she love me?”

“What could I have done?”

She feels the pain she felt then. She recognizes it. She honors it. She validates it.

It’s not that she hadn’t realized that she’d never had a mother.

But, it doesn’t help to be reminded.

She wonders if the scars will ever heal, as an image of her own daughter flashes across her mind.

And, she smiles through tears that never fall, secure in the knowledge that the cycle ended, with her.