Sitting on the Patio on a Sunday Morning

Squirrels seem to have an awful lot of fun, no matter what they are doing.

The green of grass after a spring rain remains unduplicated.

Mockingbirds are the maestros of the bird kingdom.

Puppies make all the trouble worth it with one swipe of their tongue.

There are so many things I wish I’d done better.

There are so many things I wish I’d done.

And then, there’s you…

Hunting Hearts

She was the definition of grace, as she swooped and swirled in languid circles mesmerizing her prey, effortlessly.

She appeared unaware, uncaring even, of his approach, as she pointed her regal features in the direction of a far horizon and glided into another turn.

Her helpless target paused, not out of fear, but in awe of the beauty before him.

We both watched, as she sailed in the wake of glorious plumage that caught and held the rays of the sun.

As he moved towards her, I prayed a silent blessing, feeling my impotence. His journey was inevitable.

She made another pass, looking for just a moment, in his direction.

I turned to walk back up the drive. The die was cast. For the moment, she had won.

He took several halting steps in her direction before allowing his gait to announce his decision, and as he drew closer, I’m sure I saw her smile.

Little girl on a bicycle….

Skinned Cats

She opened the conversation by announcing herself.

“This is Dixie Lee Shapiro.” And, for a moment I was lost in a swirl of images.

A bleached blonde beehive swirled above heavy, dark eyebrows and a prominent nose. As she spoke, the image changed. Dixie still sported the haystack upon her head, but the exclamatory eyebrows and prominent proboscis belonged to the gentleman at her side. Either stereotype was implausible.

A rise in the tone of Mrs. Shapiro’s voice regained my attention. Her words shook in a manner that bespoke age and infirmity, as she explained her dilemma while begging my response. Her problem was not unique. I ferried several of these calls every day, and the pile of paper on my desk seemed much more pressing. I answered her questions in a clipped, business-like manner, steering the conversation towards conclusion. But, Mrs. Shapiro was having none of it. She wanted answers. She pulled out the big guns.

In a quavering voice, she explained that the check she’d written should have allowed her to receive telephone calls from her son who was incarcerated. It had been cashed, but they claimed not to have it. She hadn’t heard from her son in an awfully long time. Was there nothing I could do to help her? Mrs. Shapiro’s hair shrunk considerably as she spoke, and the image of her buxom figure alongside Mr. Shapiro was replaced by the creaking sound made by her rocking chair as it rode wooden floors that had, long ago, lost their sheen. Her worry, anxiety, and loneliness were palpable.

Empathy kicked in, and I went the extra mile, tracing her funds and forgiving the fee usually charged for such service. Her payment had been received. She had a legitimate complaint, and as I shared the information, I embellished with some advice in hopes that the lines of communication between she and her wayward son would soon be open.

“That’s what I thought, and I didn’t especially like it.” Her response was spoken in a voice I hardly recognized. The quiver was missing, and the tenor now carried smoke, and whiskey, and something more, something hard. She spoke for several seconds of her son’s girlfriend, who managed to speak to him “some kinda way”, before thanking me for my assistance and agreeing with my conclusions.

“Let’s start there and see what happens, ok, kid?”

I hung up with a smile.

Garden Party

My sister held a garden party last Sunday to celebrate the graduation of her 2 children who, though twins, only bear the usual family resemblance. She had invited nearly one hundred people and hoped frequently occurring spring showers would hold off long enough to accommodate the crowd her modest house would not.

Her landscape-architect husband keeps their backyard in immaculate condition at all times. For the party, they sat circular tables upon the lush green carpet of grass, at alternating intervals about the yard. One table offered a modicum of privacy, sat as it was just to the left of the deck. Several tables swept up the center of the yard, while others were placed next to irregularly shaped islands covered in cedar bark, from which an assortment of hydrangea, azalea, and rhododendron competed with hand-picked annuals to achieve an overall effect of floral serenity. My eye was immediately drawn to a weather-beaten antique planter, featuring flourishes covered in rusted paint chips. The urn, itself, was immense, and the spray of green spikes that sprung from the center made it appear even larger. A carefully selected assortment of summer flowers surrounded the spray and swooned down its rusty sides, as though the entire arrangement had been plucked from a centuries old English garden, and placed there just for this event.

My father suggested I choose a table, and I did so in deference to his “bum knee”. He had the left one replaced several years ago. The right one will have to wait until golf season is over.

As we sat, I watched my sister’s friends scurry about the yard offering platters, and pitchers, and beribboned packages of plastic cutlery. A social animal, my sister has never been without a bevy of devoted friends. While not particularly envious, I admire her on both counts and know that she never fails to return their favors.

As always, when present, my father held court at our table. He asked about family members who were not present. We discussed work, and praised the cuisine, until my nephew approached, sinking into an extra chair with an easy grace that belied his years. His hair was longer than when I’d last seen him. His shoulders were wider, his waist smaller, and his neck thickened by off-season weight-training. And, as I listened to him speak, I imagined his effect on his female classmates.

“I feel like I have to stop and talk to all these people.”, he confided, breathlessly.

“Well, you do!”, his grandfather encouraged.

As the conversation continued, my nephew became animated as he discussed the college he would be attending in the fall. His efforts on the football field earned him a full scholarship to a school that fosters athletics, while maintaining an emphasis on academics. He described the recruiter he’d been working with, who had recently accepted a coaching position in a larger, more prestigious program. He praised the facilities, and appreciated the diversity of his fellow recruits. I watched as he spoke with an easy confidence that gave way to self-deprecating laughter, and silently praised my sister and her husband for their part in his maturity. Too soon, he turned in his chair.

“I guess I’d better be making the rounds!”, he said, with a smile.

Soon after, my niece floated towards our table on a wave of purple, Grecian elegance. She was taller and thinner than she had been at Christmas, and her blunt-cut, long, blonde hair framed her mother’s face.

“Have you ever known anyone who just gets prettier every time you see her?”, my father asked no one in particular. “Well, she does!”

My niece blushed prettily around a wide smile, as we all agreed. Her voice was soft as she answered questions about her future from her spot behind my sister’s chair. Holding her future firmly in hand, she was hoping for an academic scholarship from the school of education. She didn’t stay long. She had other tables to visit.

As she walked away, my father resumed the earlier conversation in which he shared his secrets for longevity. As he spoke, I rose in search of the after-dinner coffee I knew he’d soon be calling for. I dodged a pair of the twin’s classmates I recognized from years of Friday nights spent watching my nephew play football. Heads down, hair hanging over burdened plates, they never saw me.

The kitchen was a busy place.

“Why are you bringing those in?”, my sister’s voice carried more than a hint of exasperation.

“It’s too good to spoil.”, her friend declared in a voice that brokered no argument, as she rested a tray filled with cupfuls of elegantly dolloped banana pudding on the countertop.

As my father sipped his coffee I surveyed my surroundings, and noticing others beginning to leave, took my cue. Finding Shane, I kissed my father, and hugged my sister while straightening my skirt. Mounting the stairs to the deck, with family in tow, I reached for my hostess’ neck.

“We’ve got to run.”

“Noooo…”, she wailed. “I haven’t had time to visit. Who knows when I’ll see you again?” Her voice was truly plaintive and, for a moment, I waffled. Slight pressure on the small of my back reminded me of other, more urgent, responsibilities.

“I’m sorry…I’m working…”, I answered, taking a step towards the door.

My sister wiped her hands, again, on the dish towel that doubled as a name-tag, reading “Hostess”. I moved in to kiss her on the cheek as she wiped me with her name-tag.

“I want that recipe.”, I said into her ear before we parted.

“The pudding?”, she pulled away, dish towel in tow, as her eyes darted to the right in anticipation of further leave-taking. “It has a secret ingredient.” This time her eyes sparkled as they are wont to do, and for a moment she was there.

I watched as she worked the towel with a haggard smile. Her face was different; tired but something more. I scanned the length of her for signs of weight loss. and decided it to be a plausible explanation. She talked, a mile a minute, about the party, her children, and their lives. And, then she laughed, as she always had; a loud laugh, long and raucous, a laugh that started from someplace deep and rolled to the surface with lots of noise, forcing her body forward. The noise of it infused her voice as she spoke.

“…I know! I sure hope I like him!”, and I realized she was speaking of her husband. That’s when it hit me. My sister was losing her babies. Eighteen years ago she’d given birth to more than children, she’d undertaken a vocation. And now, her job complete, her life yawned before her.

And, it’s not just my sister. I’m surrounded by people who are bidding their children “goodbye” with parties to celebrate their combined accomplishments. And this is where I would be, had I not made the decision to have another child at an age that put me in the unfortunately named category “elderly multigravida”. At a time when I should be sharing her loss, I am but an interested observer.

Some of my friends seem excited; poised on the edge of a new life, and eager to exercise the luxury of eating when they please, sleeping where they like, and living, in general, their own life. My sister, on the other hand, as she threads damp cotton, once again, between her worrying fingers, seems hesitant.

Birmingham is just a few hours away, and football is my favorite sport. Saturday afternoons are a busy time for me, but I’m sure I can find a few to share, as we let go.

Unmentionables

Most women like frilly underwear. We’re hard-wired that way.

Today’s girl starts out in stylish diapers emblazoned with feminine cartoon images. The accomplishment of potty training is rewarded by a whole new level of chic, as floral patterns and ruffles become available. I challenge you to offer an image sweeter, or more feminine, than a peek of ruffled panties under a pint-sized, smocked dress. And, at that age, we are generally proud of our hard-earned undergarments. We like looking at them, and we want you to notice, too.

The real fascination with femininity doesn’t start, in earnest, until the money handed the clerk behind the Victoria’s Secret counter is hard-earned, and your own. Having a parent accompany you to Victoria’s Secret would be something akin to being fifteen and having to ask your Dad for a ride to the drug-store and hearing him ask,“Why? What do you need?”. This situation is avoided whenever possible.

When I was a teen, “Days of the Week” underwear was all the rage. On first glance, this seemed like a very practical approach to underwear. Should you not remember whether or not you had changed, you could always consult a calendar for reassurance. Due to my mother’s insistence on waiting until she had a “full load” to launder however, this never worked for me.

All my friends preferred bikini-style, and I really tried to follow suit. But, after years of feeling the constancy of a cotton-elastic waistband riding upon my naval, I struggled with the feeling that I was losing my coverage. Giving up, I rode the “Granny Panties”, and there was no shame in this. Many girls made this choice. I know, because my reluctance to shuck my clothing in the showers after PE forced me to find someplace to put my eyes, as everyone around me stripped to the skin. Many pairs of “Granny Panties” hit the red tile floor as their wearers danced and giggled their way towards raining shower heads. “Days of the Week” emblazoned across the backside of “Granny Panties” was just wrong. I settled for a nice honey-comb weave.

They make underwear for pregnant women, though I’ve never fully understood why. Bikini underwear don’t infringe upon the protuberance, and “Granny Panties” can be worn bikini-style, until such time as the baby is born and mother has recovered sufficiently to drive to the mall to buy the larger size she will now require.

Though surely always present, panty-lines suddenly became a big issue in the eighties, and no-show underwear became all the rage. Whisper thin, they were seamless, and constructed of a sheer, elastic, nylon that morphed into a hopelessly pilled, knotted mess after just a few washings. Fortunately, I only bought and very quickly tossed, two pair.

As a more direct approach to the problem of panty-lines, thongs burst upon the scene in the 90’s. I remember the first time I saw a woman on the beach wearing a thong bikini, and thinking, “Why bother?”, followed closely by, “She really shouldn’t be wearing that.” Truthfully, very few women have the physique required to pull this look off, without reminding everyone behind her of what it would look like if you tied two, rather misshapen, beach-balls together and drug them through wet sand. Unfortunately, it is usually those who should avoid this fashion faux pas who seem most likely to parade past.

Being realistic about my body, I’ve never been tempted to string on a thong bikini. I did, however, attempt to solve my previously unsolved panty-line problem by wearing thong underwear, or as I refer to it, “heiney floss”. The experiment was short-lived as I soon discovered that they do, indeed, feel much as one might imagine they would feel given the unnatural nature of their construction. While standing, my panty-line problem was solved. Unfortunately, I spend very few days simply standing. Most days I feel the need to walk or, heaven forbid, sit. It is difficult for me to say which experience is more uncomfortable when thonged, sitting or rising from a sit. Either exercise may result in an elastic wrenching, requiring an increasingly painful walk to a private setting in order to make the necessary corrections. Despite the discomfort, I kept several pair of thong underwear after realizing that their value sprung not from the wearing of them, but rather in sharing the fact with someone whose imagination, alone, allowed him full view.

I love browsing the Victoria’s Secret catalogue. As I retrieve it from my mailbox, I always wonder if the postman enjoyed it, before sliding it into the box. For years, I’ve ordered the same type of panties. They are cotton, as good health dictates, and usually patterned or solidly, softly, pastel. Recently, as I leafed through the pages, I noticed an intriguing new style I’d yet to try.

It seems I’m not alone in my dissatisfaction with previous efforts to solve the panty-line debacle. Boy-shorts have hit the scene, and it seems everyone is wearing them. And, I can see why. Whereas the seamless, flimsy, nylon panties disintegrated, almost on contact, and thongs made ordinary movement excruciating, boy-shorts appeared to suffer neither of these traits. And, minus the confining elastic usually comprising the leg-hole of ordinary panties, the material rides along the bottom of one’s bottom, allowing a tiny peek of cheek. They are cute, bordering on sassy, and after some consideration, I placed an order.

Last weekend, I attended one of my favorite types of event, a garden party. The weather was warm without being hot, and a soft breeze was the perfect accompaniment to my crinkly, gauze, long skirt. I’d yet to wear my newly purchased boy-shorts, and decided this was the perfect occasion. The first pull came upon alighting from the vehicle in front of the house. Several minutes later, after climbing the steps to the deck, my hand went again to the back of my skirt. As I was directed to a table with filled plate in hands, I felt again a need to tug at the back of my underwear, but realized waiting until moving to sit might camouflage what had become a repeated movement. As I tugged again, I envisioned wearers of leotards, ballerinas and gymnasts, and their constant repositioning of their garments, and I knew I’d discovered the downfall of the latest trend in women’s underwear.

Next day, as I dressed in a similar manner for the office, I chose an older, more reliable pair of underwear while making a mental note to place an order for more. The boy-shorts though, will remain in my lingerie drawer. After all, they are cute, bordering on sassy, and there are times when a peek of cheek is more important than comfort.

Hip-Hop Baby

It was an interesting commute. But then, commuting in the rain is always interesting. Something about shiny roadways robs otherwise competent drivers of their ability to make intelligent decisions. As the late-model, light-blue, mini-van crossed the gore lane, I envisioned a direct hit on my passenger side door. Given conditions, stomping on the brake pedal was not an option. I slowed as much as I felt prudent, sure that at sixty-five miles per hour, it would never be enough. As the license plate of the van swam into view I had a sense of my own vehicle traveling backwards. The van slid into place in front of me, and I merged to the right, while fighting the urge to look to my left brandishing a waving fist. With much effort, I kept my eyes on the road before me, while sending up a silent prayer of thanks.
Later, after the trembling ceased and I had decided that stopping to gather my wits was far too “Jane Eyre”, I encountered another driver barreling off an exit ramp as though he drove the only car on the road. The space between us was more than enough to ensure my safety, but still, I marveled at his cocksureness. I was even more surprised when the truck behind him followed his lead. By this time, application of the brakes was called for, and I slid into the right-hand lane, allowing me the turn into the wine shop.
Tonight was not the night to be without…

Kendall-Jackson produces a lovely Meritage, 49% Cabernet Sauvignon, 47% Merlot, and 4% Cabernet Franc. Vintage 2003 was a little pricey. But, I’d overcome! I’d beaten the odds! I’d looked the Grim Reaper, square in the eye, and he blinked.
With my brown-bagged reward stashed, securely, inside the valise that had secreted my lunch this morning, I rolled to a stop under the traffic-light that marked the last major intersection of my commute. A sense of home invited a deep sigh.
Noticing that the car to my left had both passenger-side windows open, I lowered the volume on Dr. Laura. The car was silver in color, and carried some age. An African-American woman sporting a black, nylon kerchief secured by a silver clasp, sat behind the wheel. Her glance to the right brought my attention to her passenger, who clasped a junior-sized football, joyfully, between both chubby hands.
It was then that I noticed the music. At first I heard the beat, while noticing that the tike in the car seat was keeping time with the football in his hands. A computerized voice wafted in my direction, urging me to adjust my own dial even lower. I knew this song…

“No one on the corner gotta bop like this
Can’t wear skinny jeans cuz my knots don’t fit
No one on the corner gotta pocket like this
So I rock Roc jeans cuz my knots so thick
You can learn how to dress just by jocking my fresh
Jocking jocking my fresh
Jocking jocking my fresh
Follow my steps, it’s the road to success
Where the niggas know you thorough
And the girls say yes”

An image of the latest telecast of the Grammy’s flashed upon my mind. M.I.A., at the time a very pregnant hip-hop performer, jumped around the stage in form-fitting, black and white. I had difficulty watching, and later I knew why. The taping date coincided with her due date.
I watched what I ascertained to be a three-year-old keep time with the music. I observed his mother glance over her right shoulder, in his direction, with no change of expression. Would I have felt better if she had smiled?
I would like to say I’m sure he didn’t know what “knots” were, but I’m not. I’m also not convinced he couldn’t explain the phrase “jocking my fresh”, and the knowledge that his mother is content to let the bastardized word “nigga” slide into his still developing ear canal made me cringe.
Whatever happened to “I love you, you love me. We’re a great big family. With a great big hug and a kiss from me to you won’t you say you love me too!”
Am I too old, or just too white?
The woman glanced back several times before the light changed, and yet her expression never altered. It remained hard, and uncaring.
The light changed, and I watched as the car surged forward, taking the football bearing, hip-hop baby with it.
Our children are our future, hers, mine, and yours.
May God bless us all…